


Ink and Honor

by BurgerBurgerBurger



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Femslash, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Political Alliances, Present Tense, Rare Pairings, Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, i have lost count of how many f/f ships are in this and now we all have to live with that, i literally have 7 f/f relationships planned in this bad bitch sooooooo, political marriage au, sad and sweaty with some intergenerational family trauma, sylvaina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 198,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurgerBurgerBurger/pseuds/BurgerBurgerBurger
Summary: Imagine,Sylvanas thinks,how merciful my death would've been had a Lich Queen been chosen over a King. Jaina Proudmoore has no need of a Banshee. I would have been slain cleanly, as would all of Azeroth. Efficiently."A marriage of state," says Jaina. "A mutual surrender for a mutual victory."
Relationships: Calia Menethil/Lilian Voss, Dark Ranger Anya/Taelia Fordragon, Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner, Liadrin/Valeera Sanguinar, Maiev Shadowsong/Tyrande Whisperwind, Shandris Feathermoon/Alleria Windrunner, Stellagosa/Valtrois (Warcraft), Thalyssra/Vereesa Windrunner
Comments: 3101
Kudos: 2012





	1. Jaina, Vereesa, Sylvanas

**Author's Note:**

> This political marriage AU takes place in BFA after the burning of Teldrassil but before the Saurfang/Sylvanas Mak'gora. I reference multiple cinematics and the Three Sisters comic because the Windrunner Sisters visiting the Spire together is *chef kiss*. In general, I'm making a lot of stretches with the lore, especially with the book history that there were two Windrunners boys before Alleria.
> 
> This is 100% a Sylvaina story, and they will remain the main characters throughout the fic. However, Ink and Honor features multiple POVs and character backstories, each of which ties to the main plot and has its own romantic subplot. I'll be tagging other relationships as I go.
> 
> All of these poor women are massively traumatized, so this is your content warning for suicide ideation, and unhealthy coping mechanisms for depression and anxiety. Gore/violence/language/sex warning for later chapters in general. The journey from enemies to allies to friends to lovers is my favorite in the world, so get ready for the angst.
> 
> Working title: Warcraft but everyone is gay. 
> 
> Edit: If you feel the urge to leave me unsolicited negative feedback, including criticism of my writing or complaints about my departure from canon Warcraft lore, please stop. I write as a hobby and publicly post for free, and find comments like that both rude and demotivating. I love all comments that express your support, but please keep unprompted negative opinions to yourself. They do not help me.

Jaina wonders if the others in the Dalaran war room can hear the hazy, tinnitus ring that sounds between her ears. They make no motion to dispel the buzzing so she assumes, like many things that bother her, it is a byproduct of her stress. She takes in Sylvanas' words while training her gaze on the Banshee Queen. It would not do to break eye contact here, not so early. Not when Anduin trusts her as his primary confidant. She stifles the hollow fury in her gut that she feels when she looks at Sylvanas, and remains quiet.

At the opposite end of the ornate, rectangular table sits the Warchief of the Horde beside her Champion, the Ranger Lord. Sylvanas Windrunner lounges, arms crossed lazily as she leans. Her glowing red eyes shift between the Lord Admiral and the King, perusing them both dourly. Nathanos sits at attention beside her, rigid and brittle to the point of discomfort. He stares at Jaina with a sneer that she doesn't return. He matters very little to her.

Instead she considers the Forsaken queen across the room. She remembers the cool night air and open waters doing nothing to quell the heat of her heart and cheeks when Baine presented her brother to her, white-eyed, Undead, but still Derek. Bile rose up, rage and magic spun through her head and she could only stare back at him, back at Baine who had all the apologies in the world etched across his face and knew they still weren't enough for her. The relief she should have felt at his kindness, his selfless demonstration that the Horde was still _good_ , was replaced with something foul, a deepening betrayal. Sylvanas Windrunner's Horde was monstrous all along.

Jaina blinks. She wonders how the Warchief can behave so cavalierly, much less in this somber company. Some portion of her mind recognizes the look: a forced, raw gesture honed by determination, not earnestness. The illusion of her relaxation is impressive enough to fool the untrained eye, but Jaina knows how to fake it too: a mask is a useful tool. More so, she questions how- in one month- Sylvanas Windrunner can commit genocide against the Night Elves, then send a missive outlining a peace treaty between the Horde and Alliance.

Even Anduin admits the request to meet must be a trap. The young King takes the appropriate precautions. A contingent of Stormwind Marshals stands at the ready outside the room, eyeing the Dark Rangers in the hallway. Though she cannot see her, Jaina knows Valeera Sanguinar lurks in the shadows of the room, blades at the ready. No doubt Sylvanas brought her own invisible spy to Dalaran; Jaina is not so naive that she believes the Warchief will keep her word to maintain the utmost privacy of this meeting when they did not.

_I wonder if they can see each other. Do they report it, if so?_ She makes a mental note to ask Valeera directly when they return to Stormwind.

"Consider my proposal a gift from the Horde to the Alliance," Sylvanas says. Her voice is high and nasally. She taps a clawed glove on the oak table.

_Snide in every syllable,_ Jaina thinks. _Her voice lacks Alleria's powerful alto or Vereesa's comforting smoothness. Perhaps her vocal chords were altered in death, or her transition to undeath. It must be the Banshee influence._

Jaina pushes Arthas from her mind. It is impossible for her to look upon his undead masterpiece without conjuring the image of the blonde, handsome boy who had courted her so tenderly a lifetime ago, her first heartbreak of many. Her heart is covered in the scabs left by the cruel hands of people she once loved.

"I assure you, King Wrynn, this offer will be extended only once."

Anduin flips through the terms outlined in Sylvanas' draft treatise as if he hasn't read it ten times through. His mouth flattens into a thin line, an easy tell Jaina has come to recognize as doubt. Certainly Sylvanas could see it too. Her King has much to learn about schooling his face into stillness until the time is right to strike. He is a hero, a diplomat, and a good man, but he has no fangs. The treatise has holes, obvious weaknesses that will be exploited if implemented directly. Jaina frowns. These issues merit discussion.

"Pen pals," Jaina says. She cannot resist the urge to tinge her voice with a dismissive edge, haughty like a real Archmage's should be. "You propose the end of a lifelong war with pen pals."

For a moment, the room stills. Beside her, Jaina feels Anduin tense and stop breathing. Nathanos breaks the vacuum with a growl, flexing against his armor as if he plans to leap across the table. A flash of fear crosses her mind: perhaps she has already overstepped. A conjured chill ghosts across her fingertips.

But Sylvanas smiles, a feral thing. "You cut me to the quick, Lord Admiral. I'm shocked you haven't commented on the obvious source of my Unified Peers inspiration. Your _deep_ relationship with former Warchief Thrall made such a lasting impression on our political landscape. One Horde leader, one Alliance leader, _unified._ How better to strive for peace than to forge meaningful friendships across faction lines?"

Jaina roils at her tone, her implication, her _teeth_. Heat builds in her gut. It is not the first time she's heard these tawdry implications. She attended Thrall's wedding as an honored guest and still the rumors continue. How quickly her opponents jump to shaming her sexually, whether their words are true or false. She stands so naked in the public eye that she cannot maintain healthy friendships without being named a whore. But her face remains icy calm, as uncaring as the depths of the North Sea. Sylvanas would have to work harder to strum her chords.

"Perhaps you're right. Thrall is a magnificent leader. I hold him in such high esteem that, in my eyes, he remains unparalleled by other Warchiefs."

At once, Sylvanas' feline grin falters and Nathanos bares his teeth, standing with his fists balled on the table. He spits, "That is _enough_! We will not tolerate-"

"Nathanos," Sylvanas warns lowly, laying her hand on his forearm.

_Ah,_ thinks Jaina. _All of the Windrunners favor human men then._

Sylvanas rises too, walking thoughtfully toward the Alliance's end of the rectangular table. She makes no sound on the plush carpet except to speak, "You prove my point precisely." She drags back the chair closest to Jaina, languidly taking a seat just outside the distance of propriety. "How will our people ever know peace without giving the other side the chance to prove themselves? You have shown mercy to the Horde when none was shown to you, all because you could see the bigger picture."

_I came so close with Thrall and Varian. They saw reason for a time._ Memories spill from her mind. An assassin, a betrayal, teleporting an entire army. An absolute feat, something never before accomplished by a single mage, yet she was punished. _Always punished. Rhonin. Pained. Kinndy._ She remembers Thrall's face as she struck out mercilessly with a wall of water destined to drown out Orgrimmar at her back, the power of the Focusing Iris coursing through her veins.

She lowers her blue eyes to Sylvanas' boots. She'd shown mercy because her exhaustion and self-doubt won out over her hatred. She'd shown mercy because Kalecgos forced her hand. She still can't see the bigger picture. She is nothing but a less determined version of Arthas Menethil.

Jaina says nothing in reply, but listens to the faded ringing in her ears. Her jaw aches from constant clenching, another consequence of sleepless nights and stressful days, as Sylvanas' invasive gaze bores into her.

"Why now, Warchief?" Anduin asks. He steels his face like a sharpened blade, looking for once like his father.

Sylvanas slowly turns her face to the King and shrugs lightly. "Mathematics. By this time next year our armies will be starving. In two years, our cities will be void of life. Except, of course, my Forsaken. The Alliance and Horde are nothing if we are all doomed to starvation and, while a world of undeath suits me perfectly, I have been given responsibility over the entire Horde. I cannot allow them to waste away. Now is time to rebuild, before a greater threat emerges."

_Azshara. N'zoth._

Jaina's eyes flick back up to the Banshee Queen's face. She sees no hint of an attitude, no coy deception. Sylvanas watches her unblinkingly in return.

How often has she imagined ridding the world of Sylvanas Windrunner? She who has suffered and is suffering and _brings_ suffering while hiding behind a porcelain mask. How effortless it would be for Jaina to simply detonate, her body an arcane bomb- here in this meeting room- and give the Horde and Alliance a chance to start anew. Anduin would understand the value of his sacrifice. Her mother would lead Kul Tiras; she had before. Katherine is so strong, so impenetrable in the face of agony. Jaina is just a little sailor-turned-mage-turned-victim-turned-traitor and she's not certain she will ever amount to anything more. But how easy life would be if she could be brave enough, just for an instant, to freeze the dead woman reading her face and shatter her into a million pieces so small the Val'kyr could never scrape her back together again. _For the Alliance. For Theramore._

They sit like this a long moment until Jaina breaks the silence. She feels such hate, but simply isn't brave enough to do anything about it.

"This may take a long while. I shall have dinner brought to us. You may not need to eat but we do, and I have many comments on your first draft."

* * *

Vereesa stares at herself in the gilded vanity mirror as she brushes her hair. She counts the strokes and her responsibilities in turn, mulling over how best to tell the boys that _no, the war is not over_ despite their temporary return to Stormwind _._ And _no, they cannot help minn'da fight the Horde_ instead of going back to school in Dalaran _._ The rhythm of her brushing is steady and mechanical, a mindless comfort.

Once upon a time she was as vain as her sisters, Lady Sun and Lady Moon, both aptly named, magnificent in their hair and eyes and smiles. Vereesa still has not given elven pet names to Giramar and Galadin, though they are certainly past the age of it, and she never plans to. Neither did Arator receive one. It hurts too much and reminds her of Windrunner Spire and all the ghouls that still desecrate the ruins of her childhood home. She refuses to consider the nicknames of her eldest brothers, the twins, Aithlin and Seldor, who passed long before she was even born, though they're probably vengeful spirits haunting the Spire now too.

How Rhonin had laughed when she told him that duplicates ran in her bloodline, how he'd insisted on their _rarity_ , and told her that half-elves were another sort all together. Who could predict what would happen?

_Twins are unlikely but welcome, my love,_ he'd told her. Even through her labor pains, she smirked so pointedly at his slackened jaw when Giramar followed Galadin into the world.

The boys are asleep for now, tucked tightly into bed, rusty hair splayed across their pillows. She thinks she must be a wretched mother for the way she looks at them, the pity and emptiness that sweep across her face each time they speak. Half-breed boys with no father and a world at war and a mother on the frontlines with a death wish she simply can't shake. She must be as despicable as everyone says Sylvanas is for bringing children into this world with no safety net. Her own safety net died at Theramore.

She brushes her hair methodically, spun silver neatly resting on her shoulder. As she stares at herself, she thinks she looks as her mother did in the months leading up to her death: apathetic and accepting. She plants a petrified smile on her face. It looks so fake to her eyes. It looks like her mother's did.

In the morning she and her Rangers will meet with the Gilneas Royal Guard to plan the Darkshore Offensive, and she will pick up the boys from their tutors in time for an afternoon snack, and she will write her reports for Anduin while she smiles, smiles, smiles at everyone she sees. Despite all their insights and well-wishes, they will never know the truth of her heart or the gnawing hunger of her isolation. They do not recognize that she is surrounded but alone.

Vereesa lives to serve; she would die to serve. She hopes that eventually, they will take everything away from her- take all of her pieces away- until there is nothing left of her to lament, just like her poor Rhonin's body. She owes it to them, to everyone around her, for being too weak to take her revenge against Garrosh Hellscream when the opportunity was served on a silver platter. _My own broken silver covenant._ Sylvanas held her close at the trial, like old times, as if she could still feel love or sorrow in her Banshee body, but how she'd screamed her disappointment at the Spire. Doubly betrayed by her baby sister, who told cruel untruths to the eldest.

_How often must I fail my family?_

After Theramore, so many of her friends advised she keep busy, so she exhausts her body, mind, and spirit day after day, but the world remains in grayscale. Vereesa Windrunner is a cowardly, pathetic, lonely husk, and she must keep burning her melted candle because she has nothing else to give.

Vereesa sets down her hairbrush, lays down in an empty bed, and stares at the mirror until dawn.

* * *

Sylvanas prefers to resolve things at the lowest possible level, but _fine_. If the Alliance needs their pomp and circumstance, she would provide it. _Such is the price we must pay for survival._

Her scorched earth policy is not succeeding, is not flourishing, and she watches her Horde eat itself alive. Behind her closed eyelids she sees the bright orange flame of Teldrassil melding with Quel'Thalas, the ruined ashes a litany of her regrets. She cannot speak to Delaryn Summermoon, though she believes her to be faithful. She cannot face her like the true coward she is. As cowardly as all those arrows in her back, as cowardly as mocking a dying woman, as cowardly as tenderly turning her eyes toward the shrieks of melting flesh. Cruelty oozes out of her for nothing, but Sylvanas will not admit her error. It's too late to own that weakness, that blind, helpless anger. She can't atone and doesn't deserve a lick of forgiveness. She tells herself that Delaryn should not have taunted her. The Alliance-- _Tyrande--_ should have welcomed her Forsaken.

"Very well then," she says. "The jury shall be cross-Factional in the event of any criminal acts committed by Peers. But the governing laws shall be Faction-specific. I'll have no Trolls tried and convicted under antiquated Worgen laws."

Jaina snaps, "Those indecent exposure laws are in place to set-"

"'A very specific precedent,' as you've mentioned twice before. I know," Sylvanas waves her away impatiently. The room has grown stifling after six hours spent debating, and the sorceress at her left is endlessly frustrating. Thus far, she has not uttered a breath except to loose a river of nitpicking commentary on the paperwork. 

She reminds herself that she asked for this. _For the Horde. For the Forsaken._ When she offered to meet in Dalaran, Sylvanas assumed the neutral location would be ideal for Wrynn and the "most trusted adviser of his choosing." While a large part of her is grateful that the boy brought his aunt over Genn Greymane, the other part has zero intention of spending one more minute debating the finer points of codecision and foreign relations with Jaina Proudmoore. Boring politics do not suit Sylvanas and, hunching at her right, Nathanos looks prepared to end his second life. He has taken to glaring directly at the ceiling.

Perhaps she should have brought the First Arcanist in his stead. Thalyssra is far from her most trusted adviser as the newest leader of the Horde, but she could spend a human lifetime reading dry subject matter like this and parse some telling information from the prattle. There are, of course, other reasons Thalyssra could have attended, but that topic of conversation has yet to arise. Sylvanas idly glances around the room, as if to eye the intricate stained glass windows. The starlight casts muted patches of color across the carpet, telling the story of some Archmage's conquest of Deathwing; likely Modera if the pauldrons are any indicator. There is no sign of an Archmage Proudmoore window.

Sylvanas continues her rounds of the room, proud to report that she cannot spot her Dark Ranger, Anya, who must also be bored senseless. To her chagrin she cannot locate the Alliance spy either. She crosses her arms across her chest, lingering behind her chair. She watches Jaina thumb the scattered pages of the treaty contemplatively.

"It isn't binding enough. Nothing in the eyes of the law ensures a lasting peace. No rights of residency, no joining of houses. This relies solely on the impetus of the individuals who sign the treaty to ensure Unification," Jaina furrows her brow. "It won't hold."

_Finally,_ thinks Sylvanas. _Say it, Proudmoore. It took Nathanos a single read to know what was required. Either you're biting your tongue or you aren't the scholar I'd hoped._

"What sort of binding do you mean, Aunt Jaina?" Anduin asks, pulling a page from the docket in response. Sylvanas wonders if he can hear his own words in his bleary-eyed state, or if he's noticed how Jaina's eyes peer up at her own as if challenging her to say something about the familial title. "Participation is mandatory from all major leaders, royalty or military or otherwise, and all those who sign the treatise. I suspect we'll have many champions bound to this agreement by both ink and honor."

Sylvanas sees in Jaina's blue eyes such terrible power. Such _malice_. This woman before her, once Arthas Menethil's betrothed, spills hate and mana from her form like an overfilled pitcher. Even in her arcane-muted Undeath, Sylvanas can smell her magic: brine and hyacinth and fig. It must be overwhelming for Vereesa to be in her company, not that she will ever ask. Not after holding her sobbing, quivering sister at Garrosh's Trial. Not after the mortification she felt when Vereesa lied to Alleria about the poison, about whose idea it was in the first place. Not after Lady Sun had shamed her. Somehow, she lost her sisters all over again at Windrunner Spire and still doesn't have the mettle to bind them to her in death. Anya, skulking in some corner, has glowing eyes too knowing and, though she'll never ask outright due to her healthy sense of self-preservation, she fully understands why her Dark Lady never gave the order to ambush. The sapphire necklace is tucked beneath her armor, heavy against her sternum. 

_Imagine,_ Sylvanas thinks, _how merciful my death would've been had a Lich Queen been chosen over a King. Jaina Proudmoore has no need of a Banshee. I would have been slain cleanly, as would all of Azeroth. Efficiently._

"A marriage of state," says Jaina. "A mutual surrender for a mutual victory."

_There she is._

Nathanos' eyes slide to hers. She is impressed at how long he's remained silent while the Alliance dawdled. Her tactical-minded Champion knows the value of diplomacy on occasion, though he loathes her scheme. How many hours had they discussed Sylvanas' marriage plan? How violently had he disagreed with her, stopping his tirade only when explicitly ordered? Sylvanas would hear no more of his nay saying. She is settled, and so pleased with herself that they have finally cut to the chase.

There are two coupling options as she sees it, and one is less likely to work for all involved parties. One half of the pairing will be the Horde Warchief or the Alliance King, a figurehead so powerful that none could doubt the commitment of either Faction to the ideal of a lasting peace. The other half would be a powerful mage, one capable of destruction on a continental scale, who hates themselves and their history enough to suffer indefinitely in a loveless marriage. First Arcanist Thalyssra or Lord Admiral Jaina Proudmoore.

But then there was the gamble: would Anduin bring Greymane to this meeting, or Proudmoore? As Sylvanas climbed the steps of the Violet Citadel earlier that day, she knew it was not enough to present the treaty alone: the marriage would have to be the Alliance's idea to be feasible. She had to keep herself from smiling when the white-haired mage entered through the carved wooden doors behind her king, dark circles and perpetual scowl in tow. Greymane isn't smart enough, isn't _innovative_ enough, to reach the same conclusions as Proudmoore. 

Anduin looks horrified. His mouth moves silently like a fish out of water. "I would never- I can't _force_ marriage on one of my subjects!"

Jaina stares at him with a sorrow so intense that Sylvanas wonders how the woman functions at all. "You wouldn't have to force them, Anduin. It must be you or me." He sits, thunderstruck, but she doesn't give him the time to lurch into denying her logic. "And the Warchief or Queen Talanji. Or the First Arcanist."

_Talanji. Interesting consideration. One I had not made._

_"_ Why?" he sputters. "This isn't part of the treaty. An arranged marriage-"

"Would work," Jaina cuts him off. Her voice is flat like a river stone, worn and dull. "A cultural leader and magic user held hostage by the opposing Faction's figurehead, present by design as a failsafe, able to retaliate if necessary in the event that the peace is not maintained. The marriage must be consensual. It must maintain the illusion of compatibility and affection to represent the ultimate rapport between the Alliance and Horde."

In the background, Sylvanas hears Anduin's arguments against Jaina's words. She's heard them all before from Nathanos, pleas and emotional outbursts to reconsider, to recognize exactly what this means for her, not just the Horde. This is more than just negotiating a lasting peace, which in itself is a miracle, but a life sentence for the couple doomed to each other's company. And if it fails? An even greater catastrophe for the Unification Treaty. The risk is magnificent.

But Sylvanas watches Jaina, and Jaina watches back. They both know there is really only one option to ensure success. There are only two people accustomed to wearing such a heavy mask, two people who have the fortitude and spite to legitimize the treaty. It makes her skin crawl, this quiet acceptance between them, a guilty verdict for the whole world to know. The unspoken knowledge that the marriage won't fail because they won't _let_ it. They will lie and kill and keep their resentful little secrets rabidly from everyone else in the whole world- for their own protection, for Azeroth's protection- before they admit defeat. They will burn themselves at the stake before failing their people again.

Sylvanas takes her seat. She says, "I concur."

Anduin's protests stop with an exhale. Nathanos clenches his jaw, staring again at the ceiling.

Jaina collects the Treatise papers on the table, stacking them into a tidy pile. "We're done here then. In one week's time we will summon our people, the Horde here and the Alliance in the Silver Enclave. We will outline the peace treaty and the Unified Peers program, and inform them that I will wed Sylvanas Windrunner by Winter's End."

She rises from the table without trembling, and walks to the door.

To her back, Sylvanas repeats, "I concur."


	2. Thalyssra, Valeera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your comments. They mean so much to me.
> 
> Without further ado: ayyyy imposter syndrome.

Thalyssra keeps busy about the Nighthold and her Estate, reading and writing reports, tidying her long-forgotten libraries and reaching out to the Shal'dorei and Horde champions who visit. Their gratitude does not feel real to her, as if she cannot accept it, as if she is a square hole and they a round peg. But she shakes hands and nods and murmurs back, "It would not have been possible without your brave deeds," and ghosts away quietly to ruminate on her own inadequacy.

All she can picture are Theryn's oppressive memories constricting her lungs, agitating the ever-sore phantom knife wound in her back. His family, a crying child-- _Pella, my gentle girl, my brave daughter_ \-- the pulsing of his words in her brain threatening to overwhelm her. Valtrois said she'd bellowed and howled like a beast, like a withered, until- by some miracle- she dispelled the visions. She didn't remember how that magic came to be, how she saved herself. She remembered only the blackout fading and the low light of Shal'Aran casting a gloomy halo around Theryn's curious, warped face.

She remembers racking, gasping breaths that turned to sobs when she was alone again. How consistently she failed her people. How Thalyssra the First Arcanist, ancient, highborne, powerful beyond measure, and given every opportunity to succeed, would see her city waste away, a crumbling pile of bones and mana. She remembers the sand beneath her palms as she heaved up blood and saltwater on the beaches outside Suramar, watching with terror as the shield fell around her home.

For now, Thalyssra sits in her office in silence, staring at her fingertips. _How strange,_ she thinks, _that my fingerprints are altered._ She stares at the small, shiny crevices of her left hand, drawing figures and writing observations in her notebook with the right. Studying relaxes her, it always has, no matter the subject, and she admits that there is something lovely in the leylines that criss-cross her body.

_The Nightwell left its mark in many ways._

She would have to speak to Valtrois and Oculeth about any physical changes they've noted since their recovery. Thalyssra has very little time alone with them anymore; she is often swept away to meetings in Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff. Though they suffered in Shal'Aran, the ruins felt like home. She misses the time with her Nightfallen all around her, a broken little family, desperate to find a cure.

She is an only child born to older parents who'd long since passed under Elisande's irresponsible rule. She hardly remembers their faces anymore. When the wall rose around Suramar, the birth rate dropped lower and lower each year. Stonily, she considers that this is for the best. The babies withered more quickly.

It jars her each time she visits another Horde capital that, even in times of war, there are children playing in the streets. Little horned Taurens and toothy Orcs playing hide-and-seek with petite Sin'dorei. Sylvanas Windrunner herself had taken her for a tour of the Undercity-- there were no Forsaken children, Thalyssra noted-- before it fell. The Warchief is a cold woman, but she has not been unwelcoming to the First Arcanist.

Once Sylvanas had invited her to sit at her right side near the head of the meeting table. In retrospect, the gesture was more of a slight to Saurfang than an honor to Thalyssra, but she is still learning these political games. When she was young, she'd always loathed the high society maneuvering, largely due to the fact that she could never quite grasp the concept. To her, it is completely illogical not to speak plainly. At least Lady Liadrin is straightforward with her, even if Sylvanas Windrunner is not. 

She has not seen the remains of Teldrassil. The very thought makes her want to vomit. _How is this different than what Gul'dan did to Suramar? Why would Sylvanas do this?_ Tyrande abandoned her too, but Thalyssra is loathe to think that she could hurt the night elves, her ancestors, her allies.

It confuses her to think of exactly who her allies are. Tyrande, Liadrin, and all of the Windrunners came to her aid in some form or fashion, Horde and Alliance both, some more willingly than others. And Khadgar! He is the true catalyst for her people's newfound freedoms. She could credit all of her successes to others. 

It isn't like the first time-- Elisande is finally dead-- she'd won, she'd saved them all, but here she sits feeling like a fraud. No measure of success could make up for the pain they'd endured. She didn't deserve praise those sweet, unknowing people gave her. Yet again, her self-doubt roots her in place.

She lowers her pen to the desk, watching as it rolls off of her notebook.

In the beginning, before the arcan'dor bloomed, she heard a crash of wood and paper. She found Oculeth trembling on the ground beneath his desk, his Nightfallen body gaunt and rattling, ink and quill spilled all around him. She rushed to him, calling for arcwine. Valtrois ran forward clutching a bottle, dark eyes wide with fear, and Thalyssra poured the wine into his mouth. He guzzled it, panting, until his breathing steadied.

Valtrois murmured, "We're running out."

Thalyssra said, "Yes." And had no other answer to give.

Valtrois ground her teeth, trying in vain to leave before Thalyssra saw the jealous hunger plain on her face. It was past the point of rationing. Thalyssra's people were starving to death.

Her pen rolls to the floor. Tears fall heavy down her cheeks, staining her drawings into a blotchy blue mess, bruises on the page.

She thought she was past these feelings, but they grow worse each day. Things are supposed to be better now. She is supposed to be proud of her accomplishments.

The world is changing all around her: the Horde has welcomed her Shal'dorei as something close to family, Suramar is safe, her friends healthy and full. But all she sees are quaking bodies and emaciated wight faces, and Theryn mindlessly wandering his gardens with no memories of his daughter. She is no hero, no leader. She can never do enough. She will never fix her fingerprints. Thalyssra will always rely on those better and stronger than she is, and her own bizarre, serendipitous luck that she has survived this long.

She weeps, isolated and stagnant, and thinks Suramar would have been better off if she'd simply withered away. 

* * *

Valeera Sanguinar really, truly does not understand why they've returned to Dalaran again when they were literally just here yesterday. At least it's a nice day for spying: the heat of the sun warms her cheeks, a welcome contrast to the crisp winter air. Her legs dangle off the edge of a warm stone roof as she eavesdrops on the women on the balcony beneath her. The two of them also appear to be reliving their prior conversations. 

She suffered through that _awful_ meeting with the Horde too, head lolling to the side as she sat, bored and cloaked in comfortable invisibility against a windowsill.

It still enraptures her that light itself can pass through her form when she's hidden. Varian once commented on it, his gruff face drawn into a perplexed grin. _They call you a shadow but that's ten times better than what a shadow can do_ , he said _._ When she visited his empty tomb, she made sure to stay visible, that he may better see her. He would be proud of her for walking out in the light. She tosses her ponytail behind her shoulder, willing his face away.

Still, she has to admit, there were two redeeming aspects of yesterday's misadventure at the negotiating table: the electric loathing permeating the air, punctuating every word with drama and heat, and the stern, unmoving Dark Ranger in the opposite corner of the room. A new toy.

Broll sometimes scolded her for her naughtiness, but she simply cannot help herself. Life is too short. Varian never scolded her. She wonders if Anduin ever will.

But the Dark Ranger- her name is Anya, she recalls from her dossier on Sylvanas' personal guard- is a former Seeker of the Undercity. No doubt the dead woman saw her as soon as she entered the room, though she gave no indication of it. Valeera understood her lack of reaction. She'd built a career on being grossly underestimated by her opponents. She knew all of Sylvanas' Rangers: when they died, how they specialized, and where they were at all times. She could list the sortie that joined Sylvanas in Dalaran, the same set both times.

_Foolish to be so predictable,_ she thinks. _Anya Eversong is her clear favorite._

Valeera had even lied to Jaina Proudmoore when she'd asked about the Horde spy. _Oh yes, there was some Forsaken woman with a bow in there. A Dark Ranger. Totally uninteresting. She wouldn't even play with me._ Jaina, looking exceptionally exhausted and newly engaged, had retired to her chambers in Stormwind and not begged the question. Valeera smirked at Anduin before leaving the throne room. It was a fun game they played: Valeera acted a vapid fool and supplied them with her information when they truly needed it, not when they asked.

And to think she lied twice-over! The Dark Ranger _had_ played, after a fashion.

After two hours of her evening wasting away with discussions on this and that-- she remembers every word of the treaty, she can parrot them back, she is so much more intelligent than they all assume-- she decided to take a lap around the room. More specially, she decided to pester the Dark Ranger, who'd not once shifted her body or eyes from the floor since she arrived.

She crouched in front of Anya Eversong, lips pursed, and waved her hand before her glowing red eyes. Much to her delight Anya lashed out like a silent viper, and caught her wrist. Valeera feigned shock as if to say, _Oh my! She can see me too!_ Anya rolled her eyes and shooed her away, pointing at the windowsill from whence she came.

Valeera snatched back her hand with a fake pout, and skulked to her windowsill perch. How amusing though. Disrupting other spies while mutually cloaked had gotten her stabbed before. But, as Broll insists, she never learns.

And now she sits in the afternoon sun, invisible again, and flutters her eyelashes and fingertips at Anya, who stands with a scowl a rooftop away. The Dark Ranger apparently decided that Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner were worthy of the privacy they requested. Valeera disagrees. She simply refuses to miss their sordid show after yesterday's cliffhanger ending.

"I've already told you I sent her away," says Sylvanas. Her bow is slung across her back, arms crossed. She glares at the few passersby traveling across Runeweaver's Square.

"If I'd any faith in you to keep your word, I wouldn't double check," Jaina retorts. Her hands grip her mage staff, blue crystal looming perilously close to Valeera's dangling foot. She kicks it back and forth cavalierly, still smiling at Anya. 

"I shall have to grow accustomed to how frequently you repeat yourself."

"You shall have to grow accustomed to telling me the truth."

Sylvanas scoffs, stepping closer to Jaina. "Don't you recognize your own hypocrisy? Asking twice if my spies are dismissed without ever once stating that your own are absent?"

"I have no spies--"

"Anduin's spy then!" Sylvanas cuts her off, clutching Jaina's shoulder. "How can you beg me for privacy and not promise it in turn?"

"Do not _fucking touch me_ ," Jaina spits, eyes ice-blue with mana and fury. "I do not _beg_."

Valeera's mouth falls wide with happiness and shock. _Magnificent, beautiful theatrics!_ She makes absolutely certain that Anya can read the joy on her face as clearly as the rage on Jaina's. The Dark Ranger is practically quivering. No doubt she'd be panting if she still breathed: bow drawn, arrow nocked, teeth bared. How it must _kill_ her not to hear their conversation.

Sylvanas removes her clawed hand. Valeera is pleasantly surprised at how wholly she complies. _The men of Stormwind could learn a thing or two_ , she thinks. _Or perhaps she's just realized it's the middle of the day, and everyone can see them._

Yesterday, late in the evening's squabbles, Sylvanas had wandered about the conference room. Even then it was clear she was frustrated by Jaina's constant scathing appraisal of her Treatise. Frankly, Valeera likes her Peers idea. She'd run enough messages between Baine and Anduin to know that the Horde and Alliance are two sides of the same coin. Besides, she loves causing trouble, and putting a group of people who hate each other in one room and asking them to make peace sounds absolutely _delectable_.

The Banshee Queen had placed one of her gauntlets mere inches from Valeera's head in the mahogany sill of the stained glass window. Red eyes surveyed the glass thoughtfully. Leaning past her outstretched arm, Valeera leered at Anya across the room, tongue licking her lower lip as she glanced back up at the Warchief.

There is a moment of scintillating horror in which she thinks she's been spotted. That Sylvanas Windrunner will grab her, gut her like a fish, and raise her in a second. The worst ending for a spy: being caught while invisible. The ultimate shame.

But then, Valeera could have lashed out so quickly that no one would have stopped her, not even the Dark Ranger poised and ready to lodge an arrow in her gut. Valeera's daggers cut _deep_ and she could have slashed Sylvanas' neck so widely that her cloaked head might have simply rolled across the floor to Anduin's toes.

She has these visions of extreme violence from time to time. Most commonly her dead parents with crude spears penetrating their bodies, or the flayed corpses in the pit where she learned to fight. She was just a little girl. She is a sin'dorei with no home. Not Horde, not Alliance, only blood and an oath to the Wrynns.

She silently giggles again at how quickly the Dark Ranger was willing to kill her just the day before. _And here I thought we were friends,_ she wanted to say. She hadn't even drawn a dagger despite the Warchief's breastplate quite literally looming a hair's breadth from her nose, but Anya's bowstring tightened with anticipation. Luckily for all of them, Sylvanas must have heard the magic words from Jaina and returned to her seat.

Moments like that one, like _this_ one playing out beneath her, bring her agony and ecstasy. Her heart beats so hard that she cannot fathom the people who would be willing to trade the rush of adrenaline for mundane steadiness. She prefers the mountains and the valleys both.

The blue of Jaina Proudmoore's eyes fades back to her normal un-glowing, equally unnerving shade. She turns to face the courtyard. "I am alone. I did not bring a spy," she says.

_Ugh. Great._ Valeera rolls her eyes. She pulls her knees up to her chest. She hates feeling guilty, maybe even more than being frightened or hungry. It is true that Jaina Proudmoore never requested her presence. It is also true that Valeera considered that an incredibly stupid choice, and invisibly followed her and the Kul Tiran Guard through the portal to Dalaran anyway. She couldn't let the Lord Admiral die, not for any grand Alliance-y, honor-y reason, but because she is Anduin's aunt. He would be inconsolable.

"Why did you call me back to Dalaran?"

Sylvanas' stare locks onto a young human mage balancing an armful of books as he stands in the courtyard. The boy is openly watching them back, a stunned look on his face.

"To make arrangements and be seen in the Lord Admiral's presence," she says. "To let the rumor mill begin."

"You're trying to prove to the citizens of the Dalaran that you can behave yourself?"

"Yes," Sylvanas sneers. "It is a rarity that your people see me at all, much less while they're still living." Her voice is acid, but she smiles, leaning casually on the balustrade. She turns her face to Jaina's and her back to the people below, but there is no mistaking the Banshee Queen's armor. Others are gathering to watch their conversation. "Some measure of transparency to the public will be necessary for all of this to work."

Then Jaina steps forward, one gloved hand resting on her staff, and gives the small crowd a regal wave. She looks every bit the Archmage as she says, "Do not play this game with me, as if I am the one who cannot keep up appearances."

_Venom in them both,_ Valeera thinks. She slowly slides down off of the roof to better see them. The horrifying juxtaposition between their hard words and soft faces is too tantalizing to miss. Still invisible and a rooftop away, Anya aims an arrow directly at Valeera. It is highly likely that Anya will shoot her dead if she moves another inch closer to her Dark Lady. Valeera smiles again, swatting her away with a look of feigned offense. _Tsk, tsk. Ruining my show._

"You wound me again, Jaina--"

"I did not give you permission to call me that."

"You wound me again, _Lord Admiral Proudmoore._ Ever the stickler for formality." Sylvanas turns to the crowd too. "Very well."

She slowly raises a hand-- Jaina's back muscles tense at the motion, the perceived threat, Valeera can smell the crackle of her magic spike-- and then the Warchief timidly waves, as if uncertain of how she will be received. Her imitation of vulnerability is so convincing that Valeera wants to gasp. The people below are thoroughly abuzz with it. All of the Broken Isles will know she waved as an apprehensive, well-intentioned, new leader of the Alliance would.

An epiphany strikes Valeera as she watches this bizarre display of Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner waving at the people of Dalaran, some of whom are even waving back, that the Warchief has an obvious, exploitable flaw: she cannot stand to be the most uncomfortable person in the room. She would always, _always_ find a way to make it worse for someone else, even at her own expense. _What a spiteful creature._

Jaina relaxes her body, turning away from the courtyard. Her scowl falls immediately into place. Sylvanas stops waving, and turns to her with a soft smile. The people can clearly still see her.

"I brought you here to discuss this marriage privately, Lord Admiral. I concur with your idea but feel it prudent to outline my expectations."

"It was _your_ idea, Warchief, and you refused to be forthcoming about it knowing you'd catch us in a trap if I suggested a marriage instead. I've had enough of you playing coy. It doesn't suit you."

Sylvanas turns fully, her back to the courtyard. The coal tear-stains on her cheeks are dark beneath her hood.

" _You_ do not suit me, Jaina Proudmoore. _Peace_ does not suit me. I proposed this arrangement solely for the good of our people, who are dying by the score on the battlefield and are running out of options. Do not delude yourself into thinking I am suffering this torment for any reason other than to keep the Horde afloat."

Sylvanas leans in, looking for all the world like she's sharing a conspiratorial closeness with Jaina. Valeera can barely hear her whisper, "I am sick of bickering. I shall await your call when you're ready to discuss this arrangement and behave like an adult."

For a moment, it looks like Jaina is going to do something extreme. _A scream, a slap, a spell._ But nothing happens, and Sylvanas steps away from her with a final friendly wave to the crowd below. They wave back again, as if hypnotized by the leader of the Horde, or simply not processing yet that they are at war with this particular celebrity. She re-enters the Violet Citadel with a billow of her long, purple cape. 

Jaina releases the breath she'd been holding, hands quivering with anger. She inhales, turns to the crowd with a smile, and steps out of their view to a wrought-iron bench in the balcony's corner. She hides her face in her hands, fingernails digging through white hair to her scalp. Her shoulders shudder. 

Valeera will not shame her by waiting to see if she cries. She slips down the stone building and over to Anya, who has lowered her bow and repositioned herself to better see Jaina Proudmoore. The Dark Ranger does not acknowledge her approach, eyes focused on the hunched mage now alone on the balcony. Valeera doesn't know how she can stand to see the pitiful display.

It itches at the back of her mind this secondhand embarrassment for Jaina. If there's one thing that Valeera hates more than guilt or fear or hunger, it's weeping. And how much worse then, to be seen weeping by another. She cannot be around it. She doesn't cry for anyone. No one is worth it.

Besides, Valeera doesn't want to get Jaina in trouble for her eavesdropping, as much as she would love to rekindle a world war with her petulant nosiness.

She saunters across the slanted rooftop slowly, getting as close to Anya as she dares. She murmurs, "First of all, you are a wicked little tattletale. Secondly, just to be clear when you tattle again, I came here all on my lonesome to see your pretty face. Dear Lady Jaina never called for my services, but you can any time."

"What a load of shit," Anya huffs back. "I bet you say that to all the invisible girls."

"So coarse, Anya! I would never!" 

The Forsaken woman squints at the use of her name, looking beleaguered but not aggressive. She is not at all receptive to this flirting, but neither has the stabbing begun. Valeera blithely continues. 

"Look, I can't force you to accept a compliment," she shrugs. "I'll see you around. They're going to make a dashing couple." She plucks Anya's bowstring pettily, and slips into the shadows of the cobblestone alley below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valeera is just a theater kid with knives.


	3. Tyrande, Sylvanas, Alleria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far there's been a lot of crying and not enough fuqqin.

Tyrande stands on the shore, waves of the Veiled Sea lapping between her toes, echoes of divine wrath sounding in her mind. The sun is setting. She is still high on it-- another fruitful hunt: a Forsaken's rotten intestines spilled out before her, an offering to an angry god-- but she did not find her true prey. She is no longer content to mangle the footsoldiers of the Horde. She wears too dark a face for these consolation prizes.

After they retook Lor'Danel, she knew Malfurion was done for. His splendid savagery could only last so long, would only sustain his frenzy until his tender heart looked back to the blackened roots of Teldrassil and said, "They would not want this."

"Yes," she'd hissed, still covered in viscera up to her wrists. "This is exactly what they want. This is the vengeance they deserve, my love."

He wept openly, massive horns casting shadows on his grim face. "No. There is no love left in you, Tyrande. And no room for me. I can follow your path no longer."

They stood in the center of Lor'Danel, surrounded by gore and the night elf faithful, until Tyrande could not stand the calamitous stillness before her. They all saw her placidly turn, mount Ash'alah, and say, "Then you have nothing left to give me."

She heard the desperate cries of Shandris begging her to wait, to not go alone, but Tyrande would have her reparations _now_ , pound for pound, flesh for flesh; there would be blood spilled across Kalimdor as thick as the ashes of the World Tree.

A frozen breeze wraps around her, the chill of which should have been unbearable, but the goddess has lent her heat in every meaning of the word. It felt as if a piece of her soul was ripped out in the ritual, handed over to Elune herself as a binding, removing her reservations, providing an elegant sense of clarity. Tyrande did not need anything to slow her steady march to retribution.

_Did the Lich King remove Sylvanas Windrunner's soul, or simply torture it?_

It doesn't matter. There is no excuse for what she did to her people, to Delaryn, to Sira. The wretched institution of her rule will end by Tyrande's hands from an explosion or a sputter, she does not care. She only wishes she'd killed more Val'kyr. Killed the Blightcaller. Killed every Forsaken ever raised to Undeath by Sylvanas, the abominations that they are.

Ash'alah growls behind her. Someone is watching them from the treeline. She's been following her for hours.

Tyrande cannot remember a time in which Malfurion refused her, or a time in which she had not heeded Shandris' pleas. The shock she felt the first time she watched her horned husband transform, ripping a blood elf in twain like parchment- bloody, screaming parchment scattered across her forest floor- was muted, as if the surprise melted from her heart, quickly supplanted by joy and ecstasy. She feasted on their deaths.

But each time the Life went out of his eyes, pushing him further and further from the moon's embrace, until he took her face into his massive, bloodied hands and begged her to stop. His shoulders stooped and shook, and she knew then that he could not suit her now. She had broken him and he was no use to her. Lor'Danel was simply the confirmation of his weakness.

"Why have you followed me, Maiev?" Tyrande asks without turning to face her.

There is a rustling in the grass. "To keep you from doing something stupid."

Tyrande does not bristle at her words. This is how Maiev has always spoken to her. She never changes.

The Warden lurks, gloomy and vigilant, her plated feet sinking heavily into the sand. Her raspy voice drifts out of the slit in her helmet, "I know what it's like to crave justice, but this rampage is not meant for women like you. You need to tend the survivors, to rebuild a home for them. You're still the High Priestess of Elune."

Tyrande turns, wind twisting her braids across her chest. She speaks softly, "It should have been you."

Maiev stands perfectly still, more a monument than a living being. Tyrande knows her words are bitter in the Warden's ears: this admission that Maiev is right all along, after ten thousand years and innumerable battles, the sickening jealousy in knowing that she should have been Elune's Chosen; it is too late. High Priestess Maiev would never let Teldrassil burn.

"Come to me."

There is a beat, then she obeys. Ash'alah lets her pass.

"I need you, Maiev." There are things Tyrande should not say, not to anyone, it would be a betrayal to her marriage- or whatever is left of it- and a blasphemy to her goddess. But those inhibitions are gone now. "I need you. Malfurion abandons me as Elune does." She lays a hand on her breastplate; the blackened metal is cold to the touch. "You called me traitor once. Help me atone for my sins. Help me avenge our people. No one else is strong enough to do what must be done."

Tyrande presses closer to her armored form. She kisses her helmet once, twice, reveling in the sharp inhale she hears within.

"Be my hand of justice."

Tyrande's fingers slide under her helmet. She wants to kiss more than metal, but Maiev strikes out without hesitation, gripping her throat. 

"Do not touch me, Tyrande. I will slay you where you stand, Night Warrior or not. You are mad with bloodlust."

"They burned our home," Tyrande gasps. The hand around her neck feels so powerful; she is consumed by longing. "I am still burning, Maiev. Help me put it out. No one will help me avenge them."

Maiev stares at her deeply, furiously, fingers grasping her throat tightly. 

Tyrande leans into the choking, hands unlatching the clasps of the helmet. This time, Maiev does not stop her. The helmet falls quietly to the sand.

Her face is crisscrossed with scars as pale as her white hair, stark against purple skin. Pieces of her ears and shoulders are missing, she is all duty and corded muscle. Maiev is magnificent in her brutality. Tyrande kisses her sharp cheekbones, the corner of her mouth, the base of her ear.

She recognizes that loneliness in her eyes, born of being purposeless now that Illidan is finally gone; and though Tyrande knows it's cruel, she wants her to _serve_ , she wants her company, she wants to be fucked by someone who has hated her for centuries and always will. There is nothing in 10,000 years that can change that. Maiev Shadowsong says she wants to keep Tyrande Whisperwind from doing something stupid, but it's too late for that.

"Take me."

She is sick of being worshiped as something sacred.

Maiev obeys.

Her tongue is in her mouth and her hands have split their focus between her neck and hiking up her dress. Maiev isn't stopping and Tyrande isn't stopping her and she's just so grateful she's found someone who loathes her enough to touch her. She misses it; she misses the heat and the biting and the Warden's angry, hooded eyes. 

Maiev does not release her grip, pushing down hard until Tyrande is on her knees in the sand. She kneels, pulling off whatever armor she can unlatch between hungry kisses, unstrapping her own dress as much as she can before Maiev forces her onto her back.

Ocean waves lap up into her hair and Maiev holds her throat and jawline, opening her mouth wider to accept all of her lips and tongue. Her right hand finds Tyrande's center and she does not hesitate: she enters her, no time for gentle touches. Tyrande gasps, arching her back, and pulls Maiev's face even closer to her own. She needs her.

Pressed into the shore, she feels like drowning, like Maiev will hold her under until she breathes her last. She is unyielding and merciless and the only one suited to dole out this punishment, and Tyrande is lost in her touch.

She wordlessly cries out when she comes, arms wrapped around Maiev's marred shoulders. She shudders, holding her tightly for just a moment until the Warden pulls away. She is panting, left hand still clutching Tyrande's jaw. A wave of guilt washes across her face and she rises quickly from her sand-caked knees, finally releasing the High Priestess. She says nothing as she staggers abruptly back to the treeline, not even pausing to collect her fallen armor.

Tyrande lies naked on the beaches of Darkshore, her eyes open wide to the moon.

* * *

"She's unstable," says Nathanos. "You'd be better off courting Whisperwind." He calls his shot with an appraising frown, "Red."

Sixty feet away, Cyndia throws the circular leather target skyward in a lazy arc, six colors spinning rapidly. Nathanos fires his arrow with quiet poise, sticking the small red painted area of the soaring circle with ease. It flops to the rusty earth of the Orgrimmar firing range where Marrah retrieves it, nodding appreciatively.

Sylvanas shrugs. "They are equally likely to make an attempt on my unlife. At least Proudmoore is willing to marry me first. Yellow."

Cyndia launches another spinning target with a vigorous underhand toss. Sylvanas' arrow does not meet its mark, veering off of the yellow spot and into green. She scowls as Nathanos stares at her with a raised eyebrow. While no one else knew what color she'd claimed, he is keenly aware that she missed her target.

"I take it your second visit to Dalaran went poorly."

"We're done," she shouts, waving off her Rangers. That was the second shot she'd missed today. It wasn't uncommon for them to accidentally hit a neighboring color on the wheel, but not from such a close range. That is unacceptable for such famed archers.

Sylvanas turns to Nathanos with a tired scowl. Since Teldrassil, he has become more forward with her about his opinions, more assertive. It is a refreshing change, one that hearkens back to their days in Quel'Thalas. Nathanos never feared her when he was living. She wishes-- she hates that he didn't stop her as she bellowed her orders and the night elves burned.

"You take it correctly. It seems she's unwilling to negotiate the terms of this arrangement at the moment. I extended the olive branch _yet again_ by making myself available for a discussion, but the meeting was short-lived. She's horrifically stubborn. Though she will have little choice in the matter when she comes to Orgrimmar."

Nathanos wordlessly takes his retrieved arrows from Marrah, sliding them into his quiver. Cyndia stacks the targets on a shelf beside them. "You think she'll agree to living full time in Orgrimmar? She's the Lord Admiral of the Kul Tiran fleet. From what I understand she splits her time between Boralus and Stormwind with frequent visits to Dalaran as well."

"She'll have to rescind her titles and lands."

Sylvanas does not miss a twitch at the corner of Nathanos' lips. Cyndia catches Marrah's eyes.

"What?"

Nathanos rises, gear slung across his back. "I don't think you really believe that will happen." He holds out Sylvanas' refilled quiver, which she snatches away aggressively.

"She won't have a choice," she says, briskly striding back to the Valley of Wisdom.

Nathanos rushes to fall into step with her. "I do agree that Proudmoore is absolutely insufferable and marrying her is like kicking a hornet's nest, but if you are serious about this peace treaty then you recognize that concessions must be made. She's apt to bomb the whole continent at the mere suggestion of losing her Admiralty again, though I think the tales of her prowess are greatly exaggerated. She is no Khadgar."

Her eyes narrow. The scent of Jaina Proudmoore's magic alone painted a full picture of her strength: the Archmage churns with arcane fury; when she moves she will strike like a rogue wave.

"I'll tolerate your distaste for Proudmoore but underestimating her is another thing. Keep your head on straight, Blightcaller." There is no anger in her voice as she chides him.

He hums. "She is certainly strong enough to cause trouble. Perhaps you should leave her to stew until we collectively meet with the Alliance again. Wrynn's letter said that Mekkatorque is developing a peer-pairing system as we speak. Proudmoore won't misbehave in public."

Sylvanas flings wide the doors to Grommash Hold, not waiting for Nathanos to open it for her, as he always tries to do. No amount of complaining could break his bizarre human sense of decorum.

"No, she won't."

Yesterday's failure of a meeting on the balcony had proven as much. Despite her frustrating conversation, Sylvanas smirks at her own performance. The waving really was a nice touch.

No doubt the people of the Eastern Kingdoms have already told the tale of her presence in Dalaran, her peculiar closeness with the Lord Admiral. Rumors of peace talks would already be spreading. Though she recalled the look of one guard's eyes in the courtyard: hard and unforgiving. She would need to speak to Proudmoore and Wrynn both about handling insurgents. There would be many on both sides unwilling to forgive, even for the sake of peace.

The most surprising thing about yesterday was Jaina's honesty: Anya confirmed there was no Alliance spy present, at least none she found, and Anya is too great a Seeker to overlook a threat. The Lord Admiral kept her word. It is no wonder she responded poorly to Sylvanas' insistence, but it was her _right_ to insist.

_If she'd said something sooner, I wouldn't have pushed. Keeping her mouth shut helps neither of us._

She stalks up the staircase to her suite, the Warchief's quarters. The room is an aesthetic nightmare: Orcish architecture and Forsaken decorations mixed with antiquated High Elf furniture. She preferred her rooms in the Undercity, though she obviously no longer had the option to return to them, nor the right to complain about their loss. Not when so many of her Horde are uprooted and homeless.

This time Nathanos beats her to the door. He bows his head with a smirk as he opens it. She scoffs at him, but he is obviously amused.

"I will see you at the trade meeting. Do not be late."

His mouth flattens into a displeased line. "I am literally never late."

The door closes behind her as she walks through the silent sitting room, past the chairs and empty fireplace, and into the bedroom. It is not a sparse room, but neither is it particularly homey. It does not feel like Sylvanas' space, though she thinks that nowhere really has since she left the Spire, and now that is ruined too. Her sisters' necklaces lay in an undignified tangle in her nightstand, untouched since she originally tossed them there, spurned and furious that she still cared enough to stoop down and pick them up at all. 

She has never considered the logistics of sharing the space with another person, particularly one whose company she does not enjoy. She imagines the room will feel tense and claustrophobic with the Lord Admiral occupying it, if their last meeting is any indicator. Sylvanas will have to find another space for herself.

She sits on the edge of her four-poster bed, wondering where she will store Jaina's belongings when she comes to Orgrimmar. 

* * *

Alleria races through the still forests of Darkshore. She pushes her team at a breakneck speed, knowing they will follow her at any pace in spite of her extraordinary abilities. Her team-- she can't bring herself to consciously call them Rangers, though the word always springs to mind-- is all mortal, untouched by the unnamed elder god that sifts through her mind, imbuing her body with exorbitant power.

They were born blood elves, not high elves like Alleria, and it surprises her how quickly she's grown fond of their company. The petty differences so often highlighted between the Horde and Alliance no longer apply now since they've accepted the void. _They are ren'dorei now._ That much she knew.

DOESN'T MATTER. IT DOESN'T MATTER. THEY ARE OURS.

She pushes herself harder, legs sprinting faster, until the voice recedes. She hears the panting of one of her elves-- _Tyrell_ , she assumes, _mages aren't used to this exertion_ \-- struggling to keep up. Alleria runs forward anyway, knowing one of her hunters can track her. She loses them all the time on reconnaissance missions.

Her body aches with a consistent tension. Though whether she is tight from the constant physical labor of her duties, the multitude of wounds she's suffered, or the void reaching at all the possibilities of the material plane, pulling her heartlessly in ten thousand directions at once, she cannot say. She hates that her Void form is a comforting release: soothing, quiet, unnatural. She loathes how often she longs for it, but it is the only time her body relaxes.

Her body longs for many things, at least as many as her heart.

Alleria begged Turalyon to take another lover. They cannot touch without a searing pain shooting across her flesh, the twin to a chill numbness that sinks deep in his bones. _So strong is his Light, so strong is my Shadow. He deserves someone who can love him properly, as I used to._ She remembers his outrage when she first suggested it, then his denial that it would be good for him, that he could ever love another. Then his questions-- what does this mean for us? is this our end?-- and the fear of having to explain to their friends, their son.

"Arator is a man grown," Alleria told him. "He would understand, and wants you to be happy."

Turalyon reached for her, dropping his hand at the last moment. "And what of you? I still love you."

"And I love you, but I am not what I once was. I am not the woman you married." Even as she spoke them the words sounded insensitive, so heartless that he might finally understand. 

END HIM. GIVE HIM THE FREEDOM OF THE VOID. HE CAN JOIN YOU. PROVE YOUR LOVE.

The voice interrupts her thoughts as she approaches a trail near the Ruins of Auberdine. She slows, the eternal mists of Darkshore swirling around her feet. There is a moment of silence, then the beat of her team's footsteps approach, the contingent of ren'dorei undoubtedly thankful for a break in their leader's pace. 

They do not hear the voice the same way she does. They know well the whispers, but not the screams.

"Anything, commander? I can't track and run like you do," says Narrina. Her purple skin shines with sweat. She and the other four Blood-turned-Void elves cluster around Alleria as her eyes travel up and down the trail. She looks nothing like her own people.

"No. I will scout ahead. Follow behind at a distance."

Alleria sees no sign of the night elves, but such is the nature of a hunt. An easy target is no target at all. Her last report from Stormwind indicated that the Horde occupied Lor'danel so, if she was Tyrande Whisperwind, she would attack the seaside village first to reclaim it for her refugees. Alleria turns her rangers north with a quiet nod of her head.

King Anduin himself had called her to him, citing that Tyrande was missing and had not responded to his summons. The King remained cryptic about the nature of his request, but Alleria hadn't bothered to outright ask why needed the High Priestess. Perhaps to scold her for disobeying his prior orders, though it was a touch late for that. Her team had found mass graves of Horde soldiers to the south, ripped apart and riddled with arrows, then unceremoniously burned in an open pit. The smell was wretched.

Anduin had given her a letter from Shandris Feathermoon, a plea for assistance from the Crown that he'd received the day prior, to help find Tyrande and bring her back into the fold. _Not only is the High Priestess drifting farther and farther from the Alliance, but now she is ostracizing her own family._

The words the King did not speak were _control her, she is running wild,_ but Alleria and her void elves dutifully accepted the his request. They thought it should not be hard to find Elune's Chosen given the trail of bodies she and Malfurion left behind. 

Alleria rolls her shoulders. She aches.

She loathes going to Stormwind and Ironforge now, so bright is the Light behind their gates. Years ago, Anduin, upon seeing her for the first time in half a decade, enveloped her in a hug. A scorching brightness exploded behind her eyes and the voice screamed KILL HIM KILL HIM TAKE AWAY HIS LIGHT and she fiercely pushed him away, gasping and clutching her head. It felt like splitting.

_I should have warned him. Even then it had been years since Turalyon touched me. I'd forgotten the pain._

Anduin apologized profusely, not fully understanding what occurred, but he knew that his own veins grew icy and sluggish, and an unnatural pallor gripped his heart. Turalyon always described it as falling into frozen water.

She gently asked the others on Argus if they'd experienced this. Most said they feel nothing when exposed to the Light. Umbric mentioned a tingling feeling, but no pain.

She is their leader and their founder and they trust her implicitly, but she is just a little different than they are. Locus-Walker did not prepare her for this, neither when she ate Nhal'athoth's heart, nor when she siphoned L'ura into her very being. While she would never wish her predicament on another, she mourns that she is the only one experiencing this brand of suffering: a darkened naaru- a being fundamentally warped- is twisting inside of her, wringing out her heart like a wet rag.

Alleria feels the anguish of L'ura every second of her life. She begins to run.

It is so difficult to describe her melancholy, her _burden_ , to others. She'd tried with her husband, and tried again with her son, but ultimately feels that her point cannot be made because they speak two diametrically opposed languages. The Light is a blessing to them. They are forces at war with each other.

She is so fond of Arator and his optimism- proud of the man he's become- though she had next to nothing to do with it. Arator looks like Turalyon, laughs like Vereesa; Alleria even sees bits of Rhonin in him when he talks about the twins. She loves him so much, but feels like a stranger in her son's presence.

_I am a stranger to my sisters too._

When she and Sylvanas and Vereesa returned to Windrunner Spire, she felt trepidation and hope in equal measure. She rode and shot side by side with her sisters-- _it felt so good to be beside them_ \-- until the veneer wore off, and they began to fight like they always would. The chasm between them all was too deep, the Void was too loud, and Alleria dropped her green necklace to the floor with a careless clatter and walked away. 

It wasn't until later, when she returned home through a rift, that she regretted dropping her family heirloom so carelessly and cruelly, just as she'd dropped her sisters. She's just as cruel as Sylvanas, if not worse. At least Lady Moon can own what she is, but Lady Sun is the worst sort of misnomer. Alleria can't admit what she's become, and won't reach out to Sylvanas, and never thanked Vereesa for all she'd done for them. She is always too busy to visit the boys. She makes herself too busy, too occupied by her work and her Void.

_I am uncomfortable with my own family._

YOU HAVE NO FAMILY. YOU ARE ONE WITH US.

Her legs carry her swiftly away from her group. Alleria is something more than they; more akin to a god than a mortal.

But what remains of her mortality drove her back to Windrunner Spire to retrieve the necklaces. All three of them. She went back all alone and searched for hours, but couldn't find them where they fell. She searched all the rooms: hers, her parents', her sisters', her brothers', in case some ghoul's decaying foot somehow dragged them back inside. But they were gone.

She mourned by slaying fifty ghastly treants in a Void-fueled frenzy.

_I have lost my entire family twice-over_.

PROVE YOUR LOVE SLAY THEM YOU ARE OURS MAKE THEM OURS

She sprints, muscles burning, wind ripping back her cloak and bright blonde hair. If she goes fast enough there is no room for voices or memories or worry. She can push through the pain in her legs and listen only to the pounding of her feet in the underbrush, the sting of thorns and branches against her calves.

Alleria runs and keeps running until her heart feels like it's exploding and her mind is finally quiet and she cannot catch her breath and--

She collides. 

Something _hard_ hits her right side, latching onto her unmercifully, tackling her to the earth with a crack. In her shock she cannot embrace the Void, she cannot breathe: her lower ribs are broken, she hears them snap on impact. Then all at once there is shouting, the draw of bowstrings, and a snarling night elf looms over her. 

The other woman's face barely registers: _Shandris_. Then: _Sentinels._ Finally: _Her hands don't burn._

"Alleria? I thought-- I thought you were Horde. Are you- ?"

Alleria cannot makes her lungs expand. She offers up a mewling choke, and loses consciousness before she hears the rest of Shandris' question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried so hard to write this chapter from Maiev's POV, but Tyrande power bottomed her way into the limelight.


	4. Jaina, Liadrin, Shandris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me @ me, preemptively adding relationship tags: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

When Jaina thinks of home, she thinks of Proudmoore Keep, though the title is a nebulous thing in her mind. Once it was Dalaran, once Theramore, once Stormwind. She thinks, perhaps, that her fickle nature is what allows it to so frequently change, and that is why she is undeserving of a home at all.

For now though, she sits in her family's Keep across from her mother, each of them occupying a lush armchair, chess set between them, steaming coffee cups seeping heat into their palms. The library is a small comfort to Jaina-- it is her favorite room in the Keep-- and it is the space in which her mother always suggests they meet. She is trying very hard to take care of her daughter, and it touches her heart like few things still do.

At the door, Taelia Fordragon stands at attention, hammer latched to her back. Boralus has seen relative safety since the end of the Ashvane civil war, but the Proudmoores take their security more seriously now. They do not trust the unproven so lightly. As much as she can, Taelia gives them their privacy; her normally joyful, curious eyes are trained to the sunny window to her left.

Katherine has been affectionate, honest, and endlessly supportive since Jaina became the Lord Admiral, the way Jaina always dreamed her mother would be. It feels good, and it worries her because it feels good, and Jaina never manages to make the good things last. She fears her mother's response to the news she is about to break; that she will, once again, be the driving wedge that pries them apart.

She'd received permission from Anduin to tell her mother about the Unified Peers early. She thinks her nephew is intelligent enough to know she would have done it anyway, regardless of his status or opinion, and having the Proudmoores as a united front makes it far easier for the rest of the Alliance to fall in line.

_A house divided cannot stand, as they say. I have personally proven that._

"You know you can tell me anything, Jaina," says Katherine. "You are my daughter, and I will not abandon you. What happened here was the greatest mistake of my life, and I will not repeat it."

Katherine often offers her reassurances, and it worries Jaina how desperately she needs to hear them, how she clings to her mother's support knowing that she should be able to stand on her own two feet, alone as she always is. She is so terrified to lose what's left of her family again, by her own choices, by her own hand. A mended vase is more likely to shatter. She hears the static buzzing in her ears.

"Thank you, mother. That means the world to me." Jaina's breath becomes shorter. The words are about to pour out of her. She has never been a secret-keeper, that behavior is a learned one, and she finds she can hardly lie to her mother. She cannot even bend the truth, a skill she has become most gifted at honing in the public sphere, in front of Katherine Proudmoore.

"The Alliance is signing a peace treaty with the Horde. There will be a total ceasefire, and each leader will be paired with a peer from the other Faction, as if they have a sister-state, for accountability and peacekeeping. Anduin and the Warchief have already signed the initial Treatise, and the Unified Peers program will be presented in Dalaran at a leadership summit in three days. You will be among them."

Katherine's face remains perfectly still but for a growing flush on her cheeks. At the door, Taelia's eyes are wide. Jaina cannot stop.

"I will be-- I am marrying Sylvanas Windrunner. A marriage of state, as the first peers of the Alliance and Horde. We have agreed to be wed by Winter's End."

The silence is long and tense, broken only by the clinking of Katherine setting her coffee cup onto a porcelain saucer. Her hands shake. She clasps them in her lap, the demure motion ruined by the clenching of her fingers. Her face is red, gaze boring into the tiled chess set at her right.

"We are still working out the arrangement and exactly what it will entail for us both. She has been... polite so far." She thinks of the Warchief's hand on her shoulder, unwelcome and aggressive, forcing Jaina to look at her. She thinks of her name in Sylvanas Windrunner's mouth, and it makes her stomach turn.

Jaina can see her mother's mind working through the possible outcomes of this news: the political and personal ramifications of how her response, right now in this moment, will affect her daughter and the future of the Alliance. Behind her, Taelia's mouth is open wide as she stares with a horrified expression at Jaina. This is the look she expected.

A swell of exhaustion washes over Jaina, her constant companion. She mimics her mother, setting down her coffee. She has not eaten today, and the drink will undoubtedly make her heart race even more. When she was little and her father was home from sailing, he would take her and Derek into the library and read them sea stories of witches and krakens in the deep who sink ships and come for children who don't eat their vegetables. Her mother would interrupt story time with a protest that Daelin was scaring them, though they all laughed and Jaina pretended to be a sea-witch swimming with the whales and sharks. The library seemed bigger then, an entire ocean.

She desperately tries to hold back some information, jaw clenched purposefully. Jaina cannot pretend that she and Sylvanas Windrunner have any sort of rapport-- she will leave that pretending for later-- but neither can she tell her that they are violently antagonistic in private. She hasn't told anyone about their second meeting, about the Banshee Queen reducing her to tears on a balcony in Dalaran, about the avalanche of her doubts and fears crushing her in that moment like they hadn't since Arthas Menethil purged Stratholme, since the bombing of Theramore, since she allowed her father to die. She cannot win, but she can play her part in this peace.

"Jaina," says her mother, voice shaking.

The tears well up, heavy in her eyes. Jaina feels like she is always crying.

"I will stand by you in this."

Jaina releases a shuddering exhale, such is the relief she feels, cathartic and frightening in its depth and desperation. She is openly weeping as her mother continues.

"But know that I will not allow her to harm you, and you must be honest with me about her treatment of you. I will see her slain if she touches a hair on your head, or forces you to do _anything_ you do not wish. You will not be a prisoner to the Banshee. You will not be her captive. She will treat you as the Lord Admiral, my daughter, deserves to be treated, or she will suffer the consequences."

"She is treating me well so far, mother," Jaina half-lies, voice small.

_I am the one treating her cruelly._

The loathing in her stirs, a furious thing; her stomach aches with it. Sylvanas Windrunner had reached out to plan, she'd sent her spy away, she'd tried to use her name, but Jaina snapped and snarled like a cornered beast, an absolute embarrassment. This marriage, this _peace_ would not work if Jaina could not control her temper. It is unacceptable for a woman of her station to let her emotions overrun her decisions.

"And yet you cry, my Jaina?"

Her lip quivers. She cannot find the words to explain her feelings. Her fear of the future, her hatred of Sylvanas, her shame in already failing to maintain the armistice between them. She fails in all she does, and never seems to get her way, no matter what she sacrifices.

She is so selfish and self-pitying. _There is no room for love left in me, yet I mourn a loveless marriage._ Jaina had no intention of marrying, of ever taking another lover. She lost them all in some form or fashion and the suffering was so much greater than the joy they'd ever brought her. She really is a hypocrite, crying about a marriage she'd suggested and agreed to, when she could have refused from the start. She was so arrogant to believe she was strong enough to do this.

But the thought of having the ability, having the power, to save the whole world and choosing not to, is abhorrent. Even Sylvanas Windrunner has offered herself for the cause, a lamb to the slaughter, as much as that woman could be. Jaina punishes herself for thinking she deserves better. She is just as guilty.

"This is not what I wanted for myself," she sobs.

Her mother's face is twisted with pity and heartache. She opens her arms to Jaina, who kneels, sobbing into Katherine's lap as she strokes her daughter's head, fingers smoothing hair whiter than her own.

* * *

Liadrin roars, slamming her shield into what remains of the face of the zombie in her path. It collapses with a wet _crunch_ , arms twitching and flopping sporadically. She puts her weight behind her shield once again, just for good measure, and its skull caves in completely. The movement stops.

She rises, steadying her breath. "Why Dalaran?"

Behind her, Lor'themar and the Rangers pick through the remains of her slain enemies. Scourge activity has been on the uptick in Quel'Thalas, growing ever closer to Silvermoon itself. Liadrin scowls. She has obviously not been adequately overseeing enough of her border's defenses.

"I am unsure," says Lor'themar. "Sylvanas' missive only said I must be there at noon in three days' time. She explicitly ordered you to attend as well. You and Halduron both."

There is the sound of movement behind a copse of trees in the distance. Another mindless zombie emerges and is peppered with the Rangers' arrows before it can take a second shambling step. Liadrin notes that this one looks younger. It was hardly more than a teenager when it turned.

Salandria is still a little girl, hardly twenty, baby-faced and imaginative. She tries sometimes in the night to sneak into her guardian's room and call her "mama", but Liadrin always corrects her. _No, child. Your mother died in Shattrath._ _You will call me Liadrin and I will teach you to grow up strong._

But once she's there, looking small and frightened at the foot of the bed, she welcomes the child to crawl under the comforter. She always opens her arms when the girl has nightmares, a weakness she should not allow either of them. But it fulfills her to know she's calmed her ward enough to lull her back to sleep. Liadrin is not a priestess anymore, but at least she can offer that respite. She does not know how else to care for her, how else to address the feelings-- the desperate urge-- to protect her. She is not Salandria's mother, but she owes her the safety that the world did not provide.

"I'm sure he'll love forgoing ranging to visit the mages as much as I do." She turns to face him, eyebrows furrowed. "Are we ward-breaking? Or will the Kirin Tor be expecting us?"

Lor'themar regards her thoughtfully, turning his gaze away from the distant view of Silvermoon. "This is not an offensive for the Horde. If it's a trap, Sylvanas is being extremely cavalier sending her orders via messenger. Her words are few and far-between, but they sound as if the Kirin Tor know we're coming."

She purses her lips. Bending over to search her pack, Liadrin finds a rag to wipe the grime from her shield. "Under what circumstances would they let us in? Another temporary truce?"

It annoys her that she has no enemy to brutalize while this conversation is happening. She wants to bash in Scourge-riddled corpses until there is nothing left to plague her home, no monsters to remind her of Menethil and the fall. Her rebuking the Light, strung up in the Amani Troll medicine tents, waiting to die. Quel'thalas is not as it once was in her eyes. It is a fading memory, obscured by the wretched scar stretched across her homeland's face. Her Light is equally scarred.

She finds Dalaran despicable too, another reminder of the crimes against her blood elves: a monument to the purge of the Sunreavers. She has no interest in standing beside Vereesa Windrunner and her ilk again, be she the Warchief's sister or not. To think, she once loved the company of the youngest Windrunner, of _all_ the Windrunners. How she mourned when the twins, and later Lirath, were slain, those bright, happy boys.

Her naivety leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

Now the Silver Covenant only allows her Knights in their sacred city when it suits them, when they _need_ them. It was enough to see Vereesa's judgmental high elf face casting the shadow of scorn upon her troops at the Battle for Suramar. Between her and lofty Tyrande, Liadrin was delighted at the notion of never crossing paths with them again, as much as a woman of her stoic nature can be delighted.

It did bring her a measure of pride that Thalyssra selected the Horde over them, if only because they were so arrogantly convinced she would choose the Alliance. The Nightborne had much to learn about re-integrating with the rest of Azeroth, but they'd made the right choice in Faction. They are certainly an asset to the Horde.

Lor'themar chuckles, "Liadrin, if you clean that shield any harder you're going to leave a dent."

She stares up at him humorlessly. She cannot remember the last time she laughed.

He continues, switching to Common, "It may well be another truce. Sylvanas did not say as much, though her language conveys a diplomatic tone, and I've been informed that other leaders of the Horde received similar orders. Shall I ask her for you?"

The Blood Matriarch rises, shield gleaming clean in the setting sunlight. Lor'themar has a habit of slipping back and forth between languages. She does not.

She responds in Thalassian, "It matters not to me. I'll be there either way."

_The human tongue is inelegant, and truces with the Alliance never hold,_ she thinks.

She knows they call her a defiler. Unholy. A zealot with fel-tainted Light and a broken kingdom and an allegiance to Sylvanas Treeburner. She and her people will always be on the outside looking in with only their strength and conviction keeping them alive. If she releases her grip, allows any sort of mercy, they will surely perish at the hands of their innumerable enemies.

Liadrin returns her shield to her arm, its rightful place, and begins the trek to Silvermoon in silence. She does not look back to see if the others follow. 

* * *

In the stillness of her tent, Shandris fidgets. She has always found a way to move: repetitive, destructive, thoughtless. The inside of her mouth and edges of her fingernails are chewed to pieces, and at least one of her legs is always bouncing when she isn't occupied, body and mind, with some purpose.

"My little lightning bug," Tyrande had crooned. "Always on the move!"

And Malfurion corrected, "No, our little Lighting _Storm!"_ before sweeping her into a laughing embrace. Darnassus was warm and safe then, a perfect sanctuary for a rescued child.

But the pet name stuck, a violent portend for all that Shandris would survive and eventually become. She has lost track of her broken family; her letter did not reach Anduin in time. First left Tyrande in her monstrous, chilling anger, then Malfurion in his sorrow, then Maiev once again on her endless hunt. Shandris stayed in Lor'danel, not out of duty or some logical plan, but because she had nowhere else to take her people.

She chews at the side of her tongue, approaching the pallet in the corner of her tent to check her patient. The crude bed is unfit for a woman of Alleria's renown.

"No Light!" The woman called Narrina had screamed at her, stumbling through the trees, "No Light!" She'd rushed forward, grabbing at Shandris until the Sentinels stepped in and restrained her. But the chorus, "No Light! You'll hurt her!" continued by the other ren'dorei who approached, equally desperate to ensure their commander was unharmed.

They were not appeased until Shandris, mind still whirling with an unbreathing Alleria pinned beneath her, raised her palms to them and said, "I won't. No Light."

After some hasty convincing, they allowed her to remove Alleria's breastplate, and, reaching beneath her undershirt, the Sentinel-General deftly popped the two broken, dislocated ribs back into place. Alleria woke with a howl, tears streaming down her face, choked a ragged inhale, and fell unconscious again. _At least now she's breathing,_ Shandris thought _._ She could do nothing for the breaks themselves without a healer.

With her green cloak pushed aside and part of her armor removed, the battered body of Alleria Windrunner lay in the dirt on full display just off the northern trails. Her body was a wasteland, deep bruises and cuts and poorly-healed breaks scattered across her form like craters on the face of the moon. Each muscle was coiled, impossibly tight, knotted and unable to release. It took all of Shandris' willpower not to gasp, not to disgrace Alleria even more in front of her cohorts.

"How does she heal?" she asked, voice catching in her throat. She had never seen someone survive with sustained damage like this.

The void elves stared back, unknowing. There was a dawning realization that spread like wildfire across their faces. None of them could voice it.

_She doesn't_.

Shandris wasted no more time waiting for answers that would never come. She lifted Alleria as gently as she could, her wet cheek pressed against her shoulder, and began to run. "Take her things," she told the void elves. They wordlessly complied, clutching the bow and breastplate to themselves like precious relics. They _were_ precious relics.

They'd rushed her into Shandris' tent, hastily throwing together a bed on the floor while calling for a healer. _No Light! No Light,_ they repeated, the void elves' mantra. Finally a druid appeared, salves in tow, chanting a prayer to Elune that would mend the eldest Windrunner's ribcage using the old ways, the original method of restoration. The void elves stayed to watch, worried and uncertain of these foreign ways, but relaxed as Alleria's breathing steadied. Shandris didn't have it in her to force them to leave, despite them crowding all around her. She wouldn't ask her Sentinels to leave if their roles were reversed.

Now Shandris sits cross-legged in the cold dirt, having forgone her rug to provide Alleria more padding, and pulls the heavy navy blanket up to better cover the pale, bare shoulders lying beside her. Night is approaching, and each passing day grows colder in Darkshore. Alleria looks peaceful, lips slightly parted, golden hair falling across her face. Shandris gently pushes it to the side, careful not to disturb her sensitive ears.

Shandris has always been a bleeding heart, thoughtful and sympathetic to the plights of others. Though she now leads the collapsing forces of the night elf army and a group of homeless, terrified Teldrassil refugees, it tugged at her heartstrings to watch the five void elves mill aimlessly about her camp. Huddled close, they constantly glanced up at her tent's entrance, hopeful that Alleria would emerge.

Shandris would not leave them feeling unwelcome. The ren'dorei do not tread an easy path.

Outside she'd organized her troops to build another large tent for the void elves. Her accommodations were paltry, but they'd answered her plea to the Alliance for help and she would not allow anyone to say that Shandris Feathermoon was ungrateful for their assistance. She repeats their names in her mind, prioritizing the memory: warrior Corion Heatblade, mage Tyrell Glowblossom, mage Seddra Autumnpath, hunter Lora Magemight, hunter Narrina Bronzelove. She would address the ren'dorei properly, blood elf lineages be damned.

She remembers doing the same for Vereesa Windrunner's troops at Theramore so many years ago, before the mana shockwaves ripped through her bones, deafening and blinding, leveling her along with the rest of Dustwallow Marsh. She thinks of Jaina Proudmoore, and how her mother wept for their beloved human friend, their battle-sister.

"My rangers?" Alleria croaks. Her eyes are half-lidded and hazy.

Shandris pulls her hand away with a shock. She'd been idly stroking the other woman's hair, no doubt the reason she'd woken.

"Safe outside," she murmurs. She shouldn't have been touching her like that, not with such familiarity. That comfort with physical contact is a product of her upbringing in Tyrande's company, but she knows others don't always share her proclivities.

"My bow?"

Shandris tilts her head to the far corner of her tent, where the golden weapon sits atop a small birch table. "Thas'dorah is a magnificent bow. It was an honor to see it up close."

A small smiles graces Alleria's features. She swallows thickly, propping herself up on an elbow. Shandris reaches for a water skin by her side, wordlessly handing it to her. She drinks deeply, eyes closed.

"Lay back down, Lady Windrunner. You need more rest."

Her ears twitch at the title. " _Lady_ Windrunner. I haven't heard that in some time." But the void elf complies, turning gingerly on her side to face Shandris. She says, "It certainly feels like you healed my ribs, but I have two questions. How did you do it? And are you always in the habit of tackling your enemies?"

Shandris smiles, "No, though it proved rather effective on you." Her smile fades quickly. "I was hoping to take a prisoner for questioning. We've found no one left alive who's seen Tyrande."

She clears her throat, suddenly embarrassed. "I truly do apologize for hurting you. I thought you might be a Horde scout. And as far as your healing is concerned, it was less effective than I'd hoped. Your powers seem to suppress restoration in all forms but the Void's. And, please correct me if I misunderstand, but the Void does not appear to be healing you. Your body is... extremely injured. A normal elf would hardly be alive."

Alleria hums, "I will use that knowledge as an excuse for my carelessness. I didn't see you coming, and you speared me to the ground like a stuck hog."

"Oh, it was hardly as graphic as all that," Shandris laughs. "But I do wish to do more bodywork on you. With your consent, of course. Your muscles seems to need some coaxing to recover, a Darnassian healing specialty. How lucky for you to be _speared_ by the adopted daughter of the High Priestess of Elune."

_A bitter sentiment,_ she thinks, _now that Tyrande is so lost to revenge. A justified revenge that will have to be ignored for the sakes of our people. My poor mother._

Her face betrays her emotions, and Alleria's tired eyes appraise her knowingly. "We'll find her," she says with all the confidence of a Ranger Captain. But she reaches out from beneath her blanket and timidly, slowly takes Shandris' hand in a show of camaraderie.

Shandris chides herself. She must look rather pathetic for a former high elf Farstrider to show a modicum of affection to a relative stranger, much less the woman who grievously injured her. Still, she does not release Alleria's fingers. The contact is comforting.

"Thank you for saying so," she says. "All that I time I spent looking for you on Draenor, only to have you arrive on my doorstep. Fate is a funny thing, but you and Turalyon know that better than anyone. How is he?"

Alleria smiles at her again, this time it is a tight, fake thing, and pulls her hand away. Shandris' stomach drops in the sinking feeling that she recognizes as a misstep, though why the sense of displeasure overcomes her, she does not know. Her reaction calls to mind Tyrande's last conversation with Malfurion, but Shandris cannot place the connection, or why it feels like an echo of that emotional distance between her parents.

"He is well," she says blandly. "I would like to rest. Please tell my rangers I will speak with them soon."

The blonde woman rolls away, facing the purple walls of the tent. She hides her face in a lumpy pillow as her hair slips around her neck, injuries peeking out from beneath the blanket, written across her skin like ink on parchment.

"Of course. Sleep well," she says softly. Emerging from the tent, she approaches the anxious void elves clustered around a fire, Narrina in the lead. Their silvery eyes reflect the starlight overhead.

Alleria Windrunner is a hero and a good woman, and she is suffering in silence, unable to heal. She deserves extra care. Shandris resolves to provide it, hardly noting that her body's urge to fidget has vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: I am absolutely thriving on your comments. THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVE.


	5. Anya, Taelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy almost new year! This is about to be a big one, teammates.

"There was nothing else?" asks Sylvanas as she strides into the officers' mess hall, flanked on either side by Nathanos and Cyndia. She scowls at a letter in her hand, as if something particularly profane and distasteful is scribbled onto the page. The crowded room grows quiets, sensing her mood. A table full of orcs rises at once, carrying their dishes back to the washing sinks, eager to escape their Warchief's attention.

Anya casually finishes chewing her bite of Zandalari spiced noodles, noting with pride that she is the only one at her table who has not stopped to take a sip of water to quell the heat. Zekhan is practically crying, hand fanning his open mouth between his tusks. Trolls love their spicy dishes, but this is a different level of capsaicin: even she can taste it. She smirks at him, blotting her lips delicately with a napkin. There are some perks to the Forsaken palate.

It is her rest day, a rare opportunity in itself, and Anya enjoys spending time with the other Horde soldiers who filter in and out of the noisy cafeteria. Sometimes she drags the other Dark Rangers to a new table, breaking them out of their cliquish comfort with one another and forcing them to socialize, though it is rare to find more than one of them unoccupied simultaneously. The Warchief keeps her most trusted busy.

Today, only Delaryn Summermoon is free. She sits at a corner table, wide eyes staring unfocused at mid-distance. She is always by herself, and declined Anya's invitation to join her and Zekhan's Trolls. To be fair, the Trolls had never explicitly invited Anya either, but she appeared in their midst one day many months ago and they never asked her to leave. She was often there in her limited free time, loitering and listening at the edges of their conversations and openly stealing peppers from Zekhan's bowl. Now they wave her over when she makes her infrequent appearances.

Anya has never verbalized it, but she enjoys the Trolls' company. They are close to one another in a way that reminds her of the Dark Rangers, but a touch more playful. When they pound their fists on the table, eyes watering in spice-fueled agony, it makes her feel a bit more alive.

_The Darkspear Tribe is tolerable. They share their space and food with me, and have no qualms when I bring other Rangers to their table. Shame they can't handle spicy food._

Her red eyes slide to the back of the mess hall, at the corner table where the other Ranger slumps into herself. Sometimes, when Delaryn thinks she is alone, she speaks to the voices in her head, be they former lovers or family members or some unnamed construct of the gods, Anya cannot discern. She carries entire one-sided conversations in her soft, gloomy voice, red eyes always tracking something that no one else can see.

Anya has never asked her about it, and she never will. They all grieve their undeaths differently.

"No, Dark Lady," replies Cyndia. "The missive arrived from Proudmoore Keep a few moments before I presented it to you."

Sylvanas hands the note to Nathanos wordlessly. Cyndia spots Anya among the troops, and dips her head in a pointed greeting.

For the Warchief have come here, she is obviously looking for Anya. She never enters this room for actual food or company, nor do Nathanos and Cyndia, barring once when Marrah wanted to try Tauren chili and Cyndia begrudgingly obliged her. She remembers it needed more salt to Anya's tongue, but it was otherwise passable. She and the rest of the Forsaken couldn't taste subtle flavors.

Delaryn has neither eaten nor drank since the burning of the World Tree. The Forsaken don't need to, not really, but it does start to affect their mind and mood if they go long enough without. Anya had always greatly enjoyed food when she was alive, and still finds herself gravitating toward the habit of eating.

Sylvanas offhandedly told her once that she could eat, but didn't need to. None of the other Forsaken could replenish themselves like Sylvanas could, siphoning so much life force and blood out of a creature that it became nothing but a dry, empty shell when she was finished. The first time Anya saw her consume a beast so violently was under that bastard Arthas' rule many decades ago. She drank so deeply from a stag that it seemed only hide and antlers remained, and Anya knew then that civilized food alone would no longer suffice for the Banshee Queen. 

She rises, bidding farewell to the Trolls. "I have to leave. Zekhan, go give this to Delaryn." She shoves her remaining noodles toward him, points to the corner table, and leans out of the way as a massive tusk swings past her face when he turns to follow her finger. "Sit with her until she tries it."

"Uh, that woman don't know me. You sure I should?" he asks. His face is an open book: honest and harmless. Blue fingers clutch the bowl protectively. The other Trolls all turn to look at Delaryn conspicuously, but she stares blankly ahead.

"Introduce yourself first, obviously. Hurry up."

She watches the lifeless Delaryn Summermoon, who hasn't eaten in ages and isn't a Banshee and is likely hallucinating, and thinks it would have been easier if she'd just died with Sira Moonwarden during the Darkshore Offensive. Granted, it would have been easier if the Tree had never burned at all.

She rises, walking up to Sylvanas's cohort calmly. Anya notes that many eyes follow her. They know who she is, and that she is one of few who can approach the Warchief so cavalierly. The group begins walking again as soon as Anya silently falls in line, headed for the relative privacy of the Throne Room.

Anya takes a moment to glance over her shoulder, watching as Zekhan clumsily introduces himself to Delaryn. The surprise is evident on her face, but she isn't antisocial enough to refuse his company. He sits with a smile, sliding the bowl over to his new acquaintance, and that's the last thing Anya sees before passing into the hallway.

_About fucking time. She needs a friend._

Nathanos speaks to them, letter held up to his face. "I take this invitation as an apology, Dark Lady. Though an ill-planned and poorly timed one. Awfully rude to be so last minute."

Sylvanas' ears flatten, "There is no world in which the Lord Admiral would apologize to me, despite her obvious shortcomings. This is a ploy. She wants to regain control."

It feels strange for Anya to be in the Throne Room without her full armor and cloak. She feels vulnerable in breeches and a blouse, wearing only one of her short swords at her hip. The room is warmer than the cafeteria, full of the soft orange glow of fire pits and the red Orgrimmar clay reflecting on the weapons hung along the walls.

When Sylvanas took the seat, she replaced many of the Troll and Orc artifacts with bows and blades from old Quel'Thalas.

Most of the Horde doesn't recognize the significance of these pieces, especially the two of particular importance: Sylvanas' mother's swords are mounted on the placard behind the throne. Lireesa Windrunner had named them Selama and Merd'an, Justice and Mercy, and none had wielded them since her death. There is a blank space above them where Thas'dorah will one day hang.

They loom over Sylvanas' head like a steel crown, fierce and metallic.

"Perhaps she is belittling you," Nathanos continues. He hands the letter to Anya for her to assess. "Offering you free access to a custom Boralus gate seems far too trusting, particularly because she never asks you to name your second. You could bring anyone through that portal and she'd allow it."

Anya peruses the letter. No red flags appear on the first read through, so she gives it a second one. She suppresses the urge to shrug.

She says, "It seems humble and genuine to me. The Lord Admiral is obviously keen to speak with you in her Keep, well before tomorrow. I see no threat or insult in this. It's just an invitation to afternoon tea."

_That is, perhaps, an understatement. Proudmoore clearly selected each word in this letter very deliberately._

Anya looks up at Sylvanas, hunching grimly over one arm of the throne. She is excellent at reading her, far better than most, both because she likes to people watch and spends a great deal of time in her company, and because she used to read Loralen that way. Anya shifts her gaze to the curved swords behind the throne, quelling her memories. Even in undeath, Loralen was always smiling. Sylvanas never is.

The Warchief looks weary, ruminating on all the possible ways Jaina Proudmoore could outplay her. Anya had seen enough of their last meeting in Dalaran to know that their hatred is the great equalizer, the steadying hand between them. It might be enough to drive them all to success, to drag both nations to peace. They each abhor the other enough not to fail: the embarrassment would be too great.

But how deeply it had jarred her to see Proudmoore crying on the bench afterward; such a _weak_ thing to do, as if her proximity to Sylvanas genuinely hurt her. How could this woman be worthy of the Dark Lady? How could she have such a history of tremendous successes in the face of impossible adversity? And how-- the strangest splinter in her mind-- could Anya pity her for her tears?

Her disquieting thoughts that afternoon were blessedly stopped short by the perpetual annoyance known as Valeera Sanguinar. The traitorous blood elf gave her unbeating heart stress palpitations, but at least she was entertaining and unafraid. Loralen would have loved her.

Sylvanas looks every bit as exhausted as Proudmoore did: taut and threadbare, the personification of a grimace. Her skin is more ashen than usual, her cheekbones sharper. Undoubtedly she had not hunted in some time. The Banshee in her is showing.

Sylvanas had grown more and more private about her eating and physical recovery habits, but the undead clerics and most of the Rangers knew what she needed to thrive. The Cult of the Forgotten Shadow ensure her health is maintained or, where they fail, the Warchief herself succeeds. Anya sometimes wonders if Sylvanas would feel better after consuming normal mortal food, as she does when the urge strikes her. Even the blandest of porridge keeps her from feeling frayed and feral.

"Take Delaryn," Nathanos says. "She needs the urban reconnaissance experience. She's excellent in a forest but useless in a city."

"Then why should I take her? Is not my safety your highest priority?" Sylvanas bites back. Her scowl deepened the moment Nathanos said the former night elf's name. "I will take Anya."

Nathanos and Anya frown in equal measure, but only she speaks, "The letter requested you not bring a spy. She said she'd do the same."

"Then you shall not be invisible."

"I hate not being invisible."

Sylvanas stares at her, small fangs lightly bared. "You will hate refusing me even more."

Anya sighs petulantly until the Warchief's visage lightens. She knows Sylvanas is willing to play on some level, letter from Boralus or not. They'd known each other since Quel'Thalas, since before everything fell apart. 

"Cyndia, send a reply. Proudmoore can expect us at the time she specified. Nathanos, tell the mages to prepare for her portal. Anya, get your gear. We need to leave within the hour."

Anya nods, withdrawing back to her chambers. In an idle part of her mind, she hopes that their conversation is less bombastic this time. Watching Jaina cry in Dalaran and seeing Sylvanas seethe for days after bothered Anya like a mosquito bite that wouldn't stop itching. Loralen would have had the words to explain why she felt these things, but Anya didn't.

She sniffs and refocuses on the task at hand. She's never visited Boralus, and she relishes the opportunity to scope out new territory.

* * *

Taelia knows next to nothing about magic: she prefers to hold a warhammer in her bloody knuckles, but she has enough of a rudimentary understanding to know that Jaina holding open a portal from Orgrimmar by herself is a truly impressive feat. She heard her discussing her plan with the Tidesages, something about resonances and wards needing to be specified to only one person, and it seemed to Taelia that they doubted her ability to execute the plan.

_Idiots_ , she thinks. _Jaina was an Archmage for a reason._

She folds her arms across her cuirass; the steel is cold against her skin. She and Jaina are alone now, and she watches closely as she gracefully moves her hands, establishing anchors for a portal in the corner of a hallway. It begins to ripple open on the second story of Proudmoore Keep, a touch too close to Jaina and Katherine's quarters for Taelia's liking, but they'd both consented to the location.

"I'm loathe to admit it, but I owe her some measure of trust, Taelia," Jaina had told her. "It is clear she wants to forge this peace as much as I do. If she didn't, she'd have attacked me in Dalaran."

A darkness crosses Taelia's face. The thought of Sylvanas Windrunner attacking Jaina Proudmoore is blood-curdling to her. Jaina had explained to her mother, in a roundabout way, that she had verbally lashed out at Sylvanas and believed she needed to make amends. How that could be, Taelia couldn't deign to understand.

Sylvanas is a cruel, heartless mass murderer, and a verbal tongue-lashing is the smallest of the punishments she deserves.

Now she bites her lip and waits for the Warchief and her unnamed bodyguard to come through.

_That was what the Tidesages were saying. They needed to know who Sylvanas was bringing to establish a custom portal for them. Jaina didn't._

Taelia isn't trained at political maneuvering, but she thinks that maybe Jaina is showing off just a little bit to the Horde. Just enough to prove her arcane ability to her betrothed. Taelia frowns. Engagements are supposed to be happy affairs, but this one is dreadful.

Right on time, Jaina spreads her arms wide and the portal shimmers into existence, crackling and blue, a shadowy veil through which their Forsaken guests can travel. A counterpart of this portal is anchored somewhere in Orgrimmar, a place Taelia hopes never to tread. She is a tremendous proponent for ending this terrible war, but she has no desires to befriend the Horde.

A woman steps through, and Taelia thinks at first that it is Sylvanas Windrunner herself, but she's more petite and ghostly pale, with hair as blonde as platinum. She wears black and blood-red leather armor, a bow and quiver on her back, and two short swords frame her hips. The Dark Ranger's eyes dart about the room, landing only momentarily on Taelia as if she too is just part of the scenery. Like all elves- in Taelia's humble human opinion- she is impossibly pretty. She stands at attention beside the portal until her Dark Lady steps through.

Sylvanas is everything Taelia fears. With sauntering arrogance and creeping, deadly power, she enters Proudmoore Keep as if she owns it. Purple skin glows blue from the portal's reflection, and she surveys the mage before her, unamused.

If Jaina is afraid of her, it does not show.

"Thank you for attending me so promptly. I needed to address you before tomorrow's meetings." She waves the portal away with a flick of her fingers, and evenly says, "I owe you an apology for not trusting your words in Dalaran. That was unfair, and unfruitful."

Her jaw is clenched tightly, but the words sound sincere. There is a beat, but she does not give Sylvanas time to reply, "This is Taelia Fordragon. She is my personal guard." 

Sylvanas' eyes narrow, shifting their focus. "What a gift to command such a powerful surname. I know that burden well." She holds Taelia's gaze thoughtfully, as if scouting a battlefield, before she nods to the woman at her side. "This is Ranger Captain Anya Eversong."

"It's good to finally see you, Anya," says Jaina dryly.

If Anya hears her introduction, she gives no indication of it, continuing her examination of the hallway and view through the windows to the harbor below. Taelia sees the nervous twitch of her fingers on the hilt of her short sword when Jaina speaks, and thinks she looks uncomfortable. A sentiment she shares given their company.

"Please, follow me upstairs."

Sylvanas falls in line beside Jaina, leaving the guards in their wake. For the first time in many months, Taelia is beside a woman shorter than she is. Kul Tirans have such incredible stature and, though Taelia is tall by Stormwind standards, she stands half a head shorter than either of the Proudmoore women. The other guards often joked that Katherine has a better reach than she did.

She's seen both Vereesa and Alleria Windrunner on missions in the past, and can't quite remember if Sylvanas is the tallest of the three or not, but she is certainly taller than Jaina. _A rarity, and strange for a former high elf. They're normally little._

The undead elf at her side is more the size she anticipated. Delicate and viper-quick.

They mount the spiral stairs to the roof of the Keep in tense silence, the chill sinking deeper and deeper into their bones. The rooftop view is worth the wind and cold, a favored meeting place of Boralus' diplomats. Both humans are outfitted for the winter temperatures, hefty fur-lined cloaks wrap around their shoulders, but the Forsaken are not.

Anya's arms are bare, and Taelia wonders if she will be cold despite her undeath. Thus far, the woman has given no indication that she could feel at all.

"I have tea and coffee prepared for us. They're strong, and should be to your tastes."

Sylvanas feigns a polite smile and murmurs, "So considerate. Did your brother teach you that?"

Jaina stops short, blinking at the grey stone beneath her feet. The silence stretches, a rubber band about to snap. Taelia exhales softly. She won't have room to swing her warhammer in this stairwell. She didn't expect such open antagonism, at least not so quickly.

"Oh, no," Jaina softly says, breath fogging in the winter air before her. "Calia Menethil has taught me so much. She and I are very close."

At once, Taelia sees the Warchief's conceited smile drop, and Anya-- emoting for the first time-- frowns deeply, a hint of each of her short swords' blades now peeking above her scabbards. She reaches for her hammer despite its obvious disadvantage in close quarters. She'll be damned if she lets that stop her.

Jaina faces Sylvanas placidly, the same height now that she is one step above her. Furious eyes lock in a standoff, lingering savagery swirling between them.

All of Taelia's doubts about this meeting are coming true: she knew they shouldn't have invited the Horde into their home. They could tear Boralus apart with this argument. Jaina alone could vaporize the Eastern Kingdoms.

Sylvanas breaks the trance, her strange double-voice so low that Taelia can barely hear her, "I'm so pleased to know she's finally useful for something."

With a single blink, Jaina turns and continues climbing the stairs. Beside Taelia, Anya slides her swords back in, a ghost of relief passing her otherwise dispassionate features. They glance at each other for a moment with something like sympathy passing between them before they look away. She knows her own stress must be evident on her face; Taelia doesn't hide things well.

Jaina opens the wooden doors to the roof where two guards are usually stationed, though she'd explicitly sent them away prior to creating the portal. She wanted privacy. The afternoon light pours in with the cold.

Anya surveys her surroundings again, more overtly this time. Taelia watches as she takes in the glass greenhouse full of exotic plants and herbs, a favorite location of Katherine's. The Dark Ranger glances behind her, as if concerned that some threat looms on the parapets above. She looks at the finely crafted table sitting near the edge of the roof with pitchers of steaming tea and coffee, beside a three-tiered tray of light cakes and cookies placed in the center.

The scene looks too domestic and refined, too delicate after their rancor in the stairwell. Taelia gulps and stations herself behind Jaina, who is pouring a drink into a finely crafted teacup. 

"Help yourselves," she says, sipping her coffee. "Those two pitchers are for you." 

To Taelia's surprise, Sylvanas pours a cup of coffee from the pitcher Jaina designated, and retrieves a cookie from the tray. She strides over to Anya and holds them out to her. "This visit interrupted your lunch. Don't hold back on my account, Captain. I'd hate for you to be deprived of Lady Proudmoore's hospitality."

Anya squints suspiciously, but takes a bite. It seems awkward to Taelia to see a Forsaken eat. She wasn't sure they could.

Swallowing, Anya says, "Thank you... Lady Proudmoore. It tastes very good." She drinks from her teacup sheepishly. Jaina simply nods.

"Shall we plan then?" asks Sylvanas. "I suggest you send your woman away if you truly want privacy. The greenhouse looks lovely."

Jaina's mouth flattens into a hard line. "Anything you can say to me, you can say to Taelia."

Sylvanas shrugs. "Very well then. I've begun preparing for your move to Orgrimmar. We will share the Warchief's suite until further notice, at least for the first year, if only to maintain the tenets of the treaty. I will give you two weeks time to transfer the titles and duties of the Admiralty back to your mother. You will be allowed one visit per month to locations in Alliance territory. As the consort of the Warchief you will have access to all Horde lands, but will lead and own none of your own."

Sylvanas turns her red eyes to the ocean. "And if you must take a lover, I will select a discreet one for you." 

Taelia's jaw drops in disbelief and rage. _How dare she insult Jaina? How dare she order and demand of her this way?_ She feels the coil of her back muscles, the urge to bull-rush Sylvanas straight off the edge of the Keep. She waits for a signal to attack.

Jaina stands perfectly still beside the small table. She sets down her coffee. Except for the tension in her face, it looks as if she didn't hear a word of Sylvanas' madness. 

"None of that is happening," she replies. "I will remain Lord Admiral and in Boralus. I will have free reign of the Horde's lands, and your protection when I travel there, as you will have mine in Alliance territories. Frankly, shouldn't you be the one relinquishing your position of power? When I had the opportunity to obliterate Orgrimmar, I refused to take it because I will not become another monster born of this war. Only one of us committed genocide in the name of their faction."

Taelia sees Anya's eyes go wide. Goosebumps prickle her pale flesh, whether from the cold or the conversation before her, she cannot tell. 

Sylvanas' face is drawn thin. She tilts her chin up. "The blood elves of Dalaran would beg to differ, Lady Proudmoore."

"The Sunreavers were _soldiers_. They took up arms against my people. You killed children."

"They were told to evacuate," Sylvanas growls ferociously. "Did you know that? That Malfurion and Tyrande refused to leave when warned? I did not make that decision for them."

"No, you simply made the decision to desecrate their sacred land. How magnanimous of you."

"I--"

"And you will make no such decisions for me. I do _not_ want a lover," Jaina spits. "Especially one selected by you. The point of all this is the wedding, not the bedding, Sylvanas."

The tone shifts. A sly grin crosses the Warchief's face. She looks well pleased with something and Taelia's discomfort increases tenfold.

"I didn't give you permission to call me that, Lord Admiral," she says, barring her teeth. Her pointed fangs reflect the bright sunlight that bathes Boralus.

Jaina's face cracks into a grimace, and she closes the distance between them, right hand flying up to Sylvanas' jawline. Her index finger catches the corner of her lip, peeling her mouth into a mockery of a confident, lopsided smile.

"You think these little teeth scare me?" Jaina whispers, "I suggest you keep your mouth shut unless you have something valuable to add."

Sylvanas leans down, her nose hovering inches from Jaina's face, the human's hand the only barrier between them.

"If you wanted a closer look, you had only to ask, Lord Admiral."

Suddenly scalding hot, Taelia thinks she should not be watching this exchange. It feels like such a violation and, from the displeasure on Anya's face, the other bodyguard feels the same. It's as if she's bound and gagged, sinking to the bottom of the sea like an anchor. This is not how a marriage should be.

Without releasing her grip or stepping back, Jaina orders, "Taelia, go into the greenhouse."

Sylvanas licks her lips, tongue dangerously close to Jaina's finger. She smiles, "Anya, keep her company."

They obey without hesitation, pretending not to hear their leaders' raised voices the moment they close the greenhouse door. The Dark Ranger still holds her black, steaming coffee, looking small and unhappy. She is far less intimidating hunched among the rows of flowers and gripping a porcelain teacup. The greenhouse is comfortably warm and humid, fragrant and still compared to the windy rooftop. Taelia removes her heavy cloak.

_No doubt she is fond of Sylvanas the way I am fond of Jaina, as hard as that is to believe._

The silence between them stretches for one minute, then two. Taelia tries to ignore the muted shouting outside, and the way Jaina's face warps with rage she's never before witnessed.

_This is absolutely miserable._

Anya turns to watch them through the glass, lips moving silently. Her left ear flickers, tickled by a dangling tendril of ivy. 

"You can read lips?" Taelia asks.

Jaina has released Sylvanas, who now reaches back for her and points at the stairs. Jaina slaps her hand away. They are both screaming.

Anya turns to face her, ivy laying across her hood, her focus gone. "Yes. Though I hardly need to with-- all this happening."

The words _disrespect_ and _hypocrisy_ and _Menethil_ float through the air. Taelia wonders how many people below can hear them.

She feels sad. Anya looks sad. This is a sad situation, a bizarre bonding moment for the two soldiers hiding in the greenhouse from their own charges, doomed to a lifetime of hating each other while playing nice for everyone else. This doesn't feel like the peace she's always dreamed about.

Taelia sighs. "Don't move. You have a vine stuck on your hood."

Anya tenses, but remains still. Her glowing eyes appraise Taelia's face mistrustfully; this woman has been bloodied before for hesitating.

"Here," Taelia gently removes the vine, letting it hang freely beside them. "It's helix ivy. Apparently it's hard to grow indoors." Katherine tends all of her plants with daily devotion, so it's no surprise she could make a temperamental one thrive.

"Ah. So it just wanted to hitch a ride outside," Anya says, offering her the beginning of a smile.

Taelia grins back in earnest. "I'd much rather be in here." 

Suddenly, there is silence from the rooftop outside. The women in the greenhouse immediately rush to look. Two pairs of eyes, one red, one blue, stare back at them with equal measures of displeasure and confusion. It is then that they realize how close together they are still standing. And that the Lord Admiral and Warchief can see into the greenhouse as easily as they can see out of it.

A blush creeps across Taelia's cheeks as Jaina's dismayed face surveys her own. She steps back from Anya and the window.

"That's my cue then." Anya's voice lowers, "Thank you for the coffee. And the ivy." She hands Taelia the teacup with a final nod and leaves the greenhouse. After a self-conscious moment, Taelia follows her out. The chill is biting without her cloak on.

She sets down Anya's teacup on the table, sidling up to Jaina, who has returned to staring daggers into her fiancée's back.

"I appreciate your time, Warchief," Jaina says through gritted teeth.

Sylvanas gives her a surly sneer. She reapproaches, the anger melting from her face until only fatigue remains. "For both of us, do not pretend this is working when we are alone. At least your hatred is true."

Her gauntleted finger traces the silver anchor resting above Jaina's bodice. She is careful to touch only the necklace, not her skin.

The gesture is disturbingly intimate, especially after their screaming match, and the abrupt juxtaposition makes Taelia's head spin. The moment of calm she felt in the greenhouse with Anya is washed away by it. 

For a moment, Jaina does not react. Then she snaps, "Get out."

Sylvanas drops her hand, and does not wait for her Ranger: she pulls open the door to Proudmoore Keep and stalks down the stairs without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mommies are fighting. 
> 
> Thank you so much for everyone who's left me a comment so far. You're the real MVP of this chapter along with Zekhan.


	6. Vereesa, Thalyssra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Running count of how many times I accidentally wrote Valeera instead of Vereesa: 2.

It is dawn when Vereesa approaches Anduin on the High King's throne, flanked on his right side by Jaina Proudmoore and the left by Genn Greymane. They wear full ceremonial attire, ornate and meticulously crafted, not their armor or typical court clothing. Though Vereesa is older than any of them, a skilled warrior and leader in her own right, it is impossible for her to not feel overcome by their combined poise and power.

Rhonin always handled diplomacy with more grace than she could muster. She catches Jaina's eye, her dear friend, and hopes for a conspiratorial smile. When none comes, Vereesa frowns.

_Something is wrong._

"My King," she says with a bow.

"Thank you for coming, Vereesa," says Anduin. "The Silver Covenant is providing the security detail for the Alliance gathering in Dalaran today, but there is another task I must ask you to undertake. Please understand the importance of your discretion and discipline in this matter."

Genn scowls deeply, arms crossed. Jaina looks exhausted. Her face is still and mournful.

_Something is very wrong if Anduin needs me to keep secrets._

"The Horde will also be meeting in Dalaran at noon. You will personally provide their security detail, along with Sylvanas' Dark Rangers."

Her stomach drops, a frenzy of twisted guts and tangled necklace chains. She doesn't understand. Vereesa is terrified of seeing Sylvanas again and, regardless of her apology at Windrunner Spire, she betrayed her elder sister. Lady Moon was never known for her mercy. The Horde should not be in Dalaran.

"Today we are ending this war, once and for all," Anduin continues. "We will be signing a Unification Treatise in the Silver Enclave. The Horde will do the same in the Violet Citadel. The Silver Covenant will keep the peace should any... skirmishes arise, but we're trying to keep the Factions separated for now. You are one of few leaders who knows this prior to the official announcement. Vereesa, you are essential for today's success, and play a key role in this peace in more ways than one."

She doesn't understand. Vereesa hates the Horde for all their crimes and cruelties, for continuing this war each and every time they had a chance to stop it. She hates them for Theramore. The sense of vertigo is overwhelming.

_At least the boys are safe in Stormwind. This will all fall apart._

Jaina steps down from the dais, her long blue and white robes trailing in her wake. There is a drawn look on her face that Vereesa has come to associate with bad news: a death in the family, a tragedy. Her head spins again.

"Vereesa, I owe you a frank discussion on the full terms of this treaty. To bind the Unification of the Alliance and the Horde-- to bind the peace-- there had to be a legal contract. A marriage."

A wave of lightheadedness overcomes her, awash with the scent of Jaina's arcane power. Floral and sweet, a bouquet on a sea breeze. She cannot identify the scent, but Sylvanas would have been better for that sort of thing anyway. In Quel'Thalas she could identify the composition of wines with a single taste, a fascinating party trick. Alleria used to joke that she could only taste the grape flavor. Alleria never jokes anymore.

_Rhonin's magic smelled of ginger and warm vanilla and lemon._

Vereesa feels as far away from Quel'Thalas as she does the woman in front of her. Nothing feels real anymore.

Jaina, with her tired, knowing eyes and elegant silk robes, takes her hand. She says, "I'm marrying Sylvanas. We're going to bind the peace."

Vereesa feels numb, disconnected. There is a portion of her brain that registers the words, the sense of them, their necessity. The rest of her is far away, like remembering a dream. She remembers Sylvanas courting girls in Silvermoon. She remembers Sylvanas ripping the entrails out of a walking corpse.

"Oh," she says.

She feels no anger, not like Genn, who growls and stomps and points. He is saying something "--told her it was suicide--" but she isn't listening. She feels no sorrow, not like Anduin, whose head hangs low, as if his crown is too heavy to bear.

Jaina holds her hand and reads her face like she did after Theramore. There are fewer tears now, no gasping sobs to hide from her children. She remembers collapsing into Jaina's arms the first night after losing Rhonin, how tightly she'd held her and the twins and Arator. How stoic she stood, even then, after the loss of her lover and her protegee and her whole world.

Vereesa thinks, _If anyone can survive the weight of this burden, it's Jaina._

"That's enough, Genn," Anduin says, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's already decided."

"So un-decide it! What kind of peace requires shipping Jaina off to Orgrimmar to be that damned woman's prisoner?"

Jaina wheels on him, dropping Vereesa's hand, "I am no one's prisoner, Genn, and I have had enough of correcting you on that point. On top of that, I will not be living in Orgrimmar."

"Then what is the point?" he shouts. "You think the public is stupid enough to believe you and Sylvanas fucking Windrunner have a functional marriage when you can't even live together? Do you think she's going to live in Boralus with you, happily puttering around as the Lord Admiral's wife? This is delusional, Jaina!"

Vereesa remembers Genn's fury and melancholy after Liam's death. She thought at one point that he would hate her too, that he would never reconcile that she was not Sylvanas. He always treated her with respect, but on some edge of her consciousness it bothers her to hear him insult her sister. Even after all these years and abandoned necklaces, she wants to defend Sylvanas.

But she says nothing, because she is a coward above all else.

"Please!" yells Anduin. He lowers his voice wearily, "Please. We cannot afford this in-fighting. The details of the marriage aren't settled yet. Jaina and Sylvanas have been discussing them at length, and will come to a satisfactory conclusion for everyone. I promise you, Genn, they are both completely committed to sustaining the peace. The Blood War is over. They will represent goodness from the Horde and Alliance both. They will stand united."

The responsibility of her engagement is plain on Jaina's face. Even in the throws of processing this information, Vereesa notes the sink of her shoulders, the tightness of her mouth. The fear, not of Sylvanas herself, but of the Alliance never fully accepting her sacrifice; that it won't be enough.

Genn relaxes his massive crossed arms, but his brow remains furrowed. He says, "There is no goodness in the Horde." 

Anduin counters gently, "There is much goodness in the Horde. They value honor and want to protect their people. You know Baine. You know Varok."

"And I know Sylvanas," Genn says. He approaches Jaina slowly, more threatening in his stillness than his shouting. "What of the night elves, Jaina? What of Teldrassil? You betray Tyrande Whisperwind and forget her people."

"I forget nothing," Jaina snaps. "Has the Alliance not slain Horde civilians? Do not pretend that the Undercity is not devastated. Teldrassil was one of many atrocities of this war, but there are casualties on both sides that deserve reparations, and there can be no mending without first establishing peace. I want a future for the children of Azeroth, for all of them, and I will do anything to ensure it lasts."

Genn undoes his golden cuff links, rolling up his pressed sleeves. "And you believe the right person to bind yourself to in marriage to ensure this Unification is Sylvanas Windrunner? How can you expect something _soulless_ to even understand the concept of peace?"

Vereesa mutters, "She's not soulless."

Three sets of eyes turn to her, and she wishes she hadn't spoken. But it's too late now.

"Sylvanas still feels things. She feels... she wants me and Alleria to return to her side." Her words are slow and faltering. "She held me when I wept at Hellscream's trial."

Jaina winces and quickly recovers. Reliving the story of Theramore for the whole world to hear was an awful experience for her. She had no sister at the trial to comfort her. 

"It felt like before, when she was alive. But I... refused to join her. She was hurt. Betrayed. I apologized but I know she's still angry with me. But she can feel joy too. She still feels kinship with her Rangers, even friendship with some. She misses Windrunner Spire. She can smile and laugh and dance. The Lich King flayed her soul, but she still has it."

There is a long stretch of silence. Jaina stares at the polished tiles of the floor, eyes contemplatively following the ornate scrollwork inlay. Vereesa never told her about the visit to Windrunner Spire, or about almost joining Sylvanas in the Undercity. They hadn't had the chance to speak privately in ages. She misses Jaina as much as she misses her own siblings. 

She wonders if she still has night terrors of Arthas or Daelin or Theramore.

The silence drags on, broken by the pacing of Genn's hard-soled boots on the tiles. He is pointedly avoiding eye contact, unlike Anduin, who stares sorrowfully at her from the throne. It seems everyone pities Vereesa, but she feels too far away to care. In her detachment, she hears more words pour from her mouth. There is a haunted resonance in her voice, as if she is an echo of the woman she used to be.

"When we were young, Sylvanas liked to read, hunt, play games. She was the smartest of us. She could memorize a poem in a minute and recite it again word-for-word a month later. She and Alleria taught me how to shoot a bow, and later the three of us taught our brother. She learned to shoot left-handed so she could demonstrate proper form. We baked him a carrot cake when he hit his first flying target at the range."

She feels like she should be crying, like she should have an emotional response to these memories, but she is empty. Her ruby necklace is gone. Her husband is gone. Her sisters are gone.

"Even after I abandoned her, she did not betray me," she says softly. "She would not betray me."

She takes a deep breath, the ache of expansion fills her lungs; she finds catharsis in the pain of it. She says, clearly and confidently, sounding for once as a woman of her station should, "My sister keeps her word. She will keep the peace no matter the cost."

Jaina blinks once, twice, then faces Vereesa with a small smile. She opens her arms and Vereesa cannot help but want the embrace.

"Thank you, Vereesa. For everything."

The elf leans into the hug, not caring that Genn has turned away entirely or that Anduin watches with sappy glee. She tries to hug her boys frequently and warmly, to show them with her words and actions that she loves them with her whole heart, but sometimes she needs to be held in return. She has always craved affection.

After a long moment, Jaina releases her and turns to Genn. She says, "If it's any consolation, Genn, she can't be your Peer because she's already mine."

"A small blessing," he harshly replies. "What will your mother say about this marriage proposal?"

"I've already told her. She stands by me." Jaina approaches him, laying a hand on the side of his arm. "Where you go, the rest of the Alliance will follow. You know how deeply I need your support in this, for personal reasons too. You have been like a father to me, Genn. I need you."

Vereesa watches as the Worgen king deflates like a child's balloon. There are few people on this earth who could resist a personal plea from Jaina Proudmoore, and Genn Greymane is certainly not one of them. He is a pompous, stubborn man prone to fits of rage and ignorance, but he is a father to his core. Without meaning to, he collects the abandoned children of Azeroth and pretends to ignore their love, but he is an awful pretender.

_The boys have no father._

"Did Tess teach you that?" he asks with a sigh.

"No," she smiles. "Anduin did."

"Then you know I will stand by you too, Jaina," Genn says lowly. "Please understand that I want peace. My whole life, I have wanted peace for the Alliance. But I want justice for Teldrassil too, and the night elves must be paid in recompense. It would be a disgrace to forget what was done to them."

Jaina purses her lips, nodding only once. "I shall discuss it with the Warchief. Thank you, Genn."

Anduin, satisfied with the conversation, rises and walks away from the throne to a private chamber. He holds open the wooden door, gesturing them inside. "Come, all of you. We must discuss how to handle Tyrande's absence. I will only keep you a moment longer, Vereesa. I know you need to prepare your Rangers for today." 

Vereesa follows closely behind them in long, quiet strides. Part of her is grateful to have a new focus, a monumental task that will help usher in an era of peace, but the other half feels nothing at all. It is as if she watches her grayscale world from an outside window, a bystander with no vested interest in the outcome.

She carries on because she must; the Alliance requires her services. She locks the door behind her. 

* * *

"I would not do that if I were you, twig legs."

The orc looms over the human, a beefy hand rests on the axe at his hip. The sword of the Kirin Tor guard is partially drawn, half out of its scabbard. "She's here for peace, but I'm here for protection," the orc says in guttural Common, fingers tapping along the hilt.

"Drop your weapons immediately," the human growls. His eyes dart between them, unsure of which threat is greater.

Thalyssra cocks her head quizzically. She doesn't need a weapon to kill this man. Nor does she wants to: she loathes unnecessary conflict.

As she stands beside the orc, she does her best not to shrink into herself, though this altercation is entirely her fault. She'd read so much about Runeweaver Square, and hadn't considered the logistics of her early arrival. Apparently she and the rest of the Horde were relegated to the interior of the Violet Citadel where the general populace of Dalaran would never have the chance to see them.

_They really should have said so in the letter._

She wandered away from her retinue, Silgryn and Arluelle, with no rigmarole-- the building was abuzz with life and chatter over what this meeting could be about, for those that had somehow still not learned of the peace treaty-- and simply made her way outside. No one tried to stop her.

The winter chill was invigorating, the temperature almost comfortable with the noonday sun shining down. Dalaran's domed rooftops gleamed, and the arcing power of the leyline beneath the city electrified her skin. The city was magnificent. 

She realized her mistake as soon as the Kirin Tor guard approached her. At first, the muscular, crooked-nosed human appeared suspicious. Questioning what and who she was. She supposed that she and her Nightborne could still pass for ghastly-colored night elves, or even void elves, to the unfamiliar eye. So she greeted him calmly when he asked what she was doing in the city, explaining that she was a visiting mage in search of new knowledge.

_It was not a lie..._

But Thalyssra sometimes forgets herself. She is far more than a little mage now. She should have known that some well-intentioned Horde soldier would see her solo adventure and come to her rescue. She should have expected it to be the most frightening looking orc that Varok Saurfang could find, with a missing ear and scarred chest. She should have anticipated that someone would try to pick a fight.

A wave of guilt washes over her. _I should have stayed in Suramar. Or sent Valtrois instead. She knows how to handle people._

Arcane energy weaves about her. She's ready to slam down a shield between the two men.

Abruptly, she feels a hand on the small of her back. She stiffens in surprise-- her back is a constant source of anxiety; sometimes she can still feel Melandrus' blade inside her-- and an even voice says, "Do we have a problem here, soldier?"

With a quick inhale, Thalyssra sees Vereesa Windrunner beside her, half-corralling her away from the center of the square, half-blocking Thalyssra from the guard. Her silver hair shines in the sun, brighter than her polished armor. She appraises the scene before her, hawklike and serious.

A slew of eyes watch them from windows and benches: human, elf, troll, orc. A Draenei mage stops in her tracks, fearfully trying to find a safe distance from the quarrel. Three Silver Covenant archers approach.

"Forgive me, Ranger-General, but what is the Horde doing here?"

"They were invited by the High King. You defend Dalaran nobly, but you would do well to treat the First Arcanist and her guards with respect. Apologize."

The human grits his teeth, equally conscious of his audience. "Forgive me, First Arcanist and... you."

"Orust."

Thalyssra thinks, _If this humans grits his teeth any harder, they'll shatter._

"Forgive me, First Arcanist and _Orust_ ," he grimaces.

Vereesa turns from him and pauses, mouth tight as blue eyes survey the orc. She exhales, and Thalyssra clearly feels the tension in the hand that still rests on her back.

The high elf says, "Mok'ra, Orust. I appreciate the bravery you've shown in defending your leaders in foreign territory, but calling Corporal Detlev "twig-legs" was also disrespectful. Apologize."

The orc frowns, warping his scarred face, ready to argue. This woman does not command him.

Thalyssra levels him with a look that says, _If he can apologize, so can you._

He glances between the two elves, then barks a laugh, "Zug-zug. Detlev, I apologize. Thom'ka; you have a fighter's spirit. And nose. We should settle this in the ring one day like real soldiers."

Detlev extends his hand, "I relish the opportunity."

The men shake on it, gripping each other more aggressively than propriety dictates-- Vereesa rolls her eyes at them; she looks a great deal like Sylvanas-- but they turn away peacefully, weapons safely sheathed.

Vereesa removes her hand, and Thalyssra leaps into apologizing, "I'm so sorry. I wanted to see the city but it was careless of me to leave the Citadel without--"

"You have no reason to apologize. You were promised safety in all of Dalaran, not just the meeting room," Vereesa stiffly replies. Her eyes flick across the others in the courtyard. Thalyssra follows her gaze, seeing for the first time a Dark Ranger on a rooftop nearby. She'd have never spotted her alone.

The Ranger-General stands taut like a drawn bow. 

Something gnaws at Vereesa Windrunner, a distance and depth too great to name. She saw it on the other woman's face at the Battle of Suramar, when they hardly spoke ten words to each other. But no conversation was necessary to recognize important things about Vereesa. The Ranger-General sacrificed her time and Silver Covenant to save a city she didn't know. She put herself in danger because Khadgar called, and the shal'dorei needed aid.

Not everyone responded to Thalyssra's desperate plea. 

Liadrin told her once that Vereesa was cold, arrogant to a fault. A haughty high elf who cared little for the _lesser_ races. But Thalyssra sees something else on the face before her: the tremendous disappointment of her failures, just now in Dalaran and all those that came before. Emptiness and fading. She recognizes the expression from her own reflection when she was nightfallen.

On bad days she can still see it in the mirror, framed by chalk-white hair.

"Thank you, Vereesa," she says, low and gentle, in the voice she uses to speak to Theryn. "This is the second time you've saved me."

Taken aback, Vereesa looks up at her unguarded. Her ears raise, confused and alert, as if snapping out of a trance.

"I didn't save you," she says. She turns back to the Violet Citadel, away from her.

"Not everyone could have neutralized that situation without violence." Thalyssra follows. "I couldn't have. Your words carry weight."

"You're the First Arcanist of Suramar. I suspect you would have managed fine without me."

_Is this why Liadrin hates her so much? For being private and self-deprecating?_

"I have owed you a debt since Suramar and you keep giving more." She speaks to the back of Vereesa's head, seeing only her bow and quiver. "I am an outsider, especially here, and not everyone would defend me. Please, accept my gratitude."

Vereesa's stride pauses. She has lips fuller than Sylvanas', and softer cheekbones. There is a sadness in her eyes, forlorn and tender, but Thalyssra remembers her slaying Duskwatch soldiers with all the fury of the wronged, arrows raining down on Suramar, repaying Elisande for the massacre of the Waning Crescent. She remembers her swiftness and power, her voice ringing out orders like the toll of a bell.

After a long pause, she says, "I accept it." 

Thalyssra remembers the blood dripping down her forehead after the battle, seeping through her pale hair, how it crept across Vereesa's face like a fallen tear. She hadn't bothered to wipe it away, tending instead the wounds of others at the allied elven camp. She remembers seeing the dirt that stained her armor from where she fell in the melee, brutally smashed into gravel, fearless in the knowledge that she would overcome. That she would rise again.

Thalyssra wishes she could be that kind of leader.

"What did you want to see in Dalaran?" Vereesa asks.

She grins without thinking.

"All of it. Runeweaver Square, the Arcane Vault, the Grand Library, the Spires, Eventide-" she stops herself, embarrassed. Vereesa is staring wide-eyed, and she's sensible enough to recognize the signs that she's overwhelmed her.

"I'm sorry."

"Truly, there's no need to apologize for your enthusiasm. It's a welcome change."

Vereesa smiles, her face suddenly friendly and youthful. Thalyssra likes the way it looks even more than the memory of the bloody, diligent Ranger-General. Her cheeks grow warm and she ducks her head, thankful for the glow of her arcane markings.

"If this peace," Vereesa gestures to the Silver Enclave, "is true, then you'll have ample opportunity to visit again. I'm sure we can coordinate a tour."

Joy comes as a shock to her, a sensation she hasn't felt in earnest since before the Legion came. It blooms in her bones and heartbeat, immense and unchecked. She takes a steadying breath, and says, "I would love to see the city, but I'm afraid I'd owe you even more."

"You owe me nothing," she shakes her head. "It's almost noon. We should go."

Vereesa guides her up the stairs of the Citadel, nodding for a guard to open the doors. Inside, Thalyssra sees Silgryn searching for her desperately, tenseness plain on his face. He sighs in relief when she appears in the doorframe. Behind him Orust stands with his arms akimbo, wearing an amused expression.

Vereesa places a hand on the small of her back again, ushering her safely through the door. She murmurs, "Good luck in there, Thalyssra."

"If I must have world peace to get that tour, then so be it," she whispers in return. Vereesa laughs lightly, and Thalyssra thinks she has not been this proud of herself in a very long time.

As she glides through the cavernous entryway, she wonders how a simple touch could be more electrifying than the energy of all the leylines of Dalaran combined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but all the Windrunners have game. I make the rules.
> 
> At this point I'm just smashing ladies together like Barbie dolls. Comment for more Barbie-smashing.


	7. Sylvanas, Maiev

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am (un)living off of your comments and support. Thank you!! 
> 
> Someone give Sylvanas a Snickers.

When Sylvanas called her Horde to the Violet Citadel to sign the Unification Treatise, she expected a lengthy discussion. She expected heated arguments. What she did not expect was the outright suspicion each of her Horde leaders demonstrated over the blighted lunch service.

The war room's long table is filled with regional cuisine: kabobs and kimchi, ales and coffees, bite-sized ham sandwiches. There are even cookies and cakes at one end, piled high for easy access. If Jaina Proudmoore could provide a Forsaken-approved tea party for yesterday's screaming match, then Sylvanas could serve her people a free meal as she presented an historical peace treaty.

"Eat," she says.

All eyes in the room stare at her. The troll boy, Zekhan, glances over at Saurfang as if asking for guidance; the stained glass windows paint a kaleidoscope across his skin. In a far corner near the door, Liadrin stands beside Lor'themar, Halduron, and Rommath. She frowns at her, scarred arms crossed.

A lifetime ago, Liadrin was a favorite at Spire. Of an age with Vereesa, she was a happy, excitable child, as fond of pranks as any Windrunner, much to her mother's chagrin. Lireesa called Liadrin her red-headed stepchild.

Sylvanas would return from ranging-- not yet the General with her mother alive-- and regale them with tales of her daring adventures, dangling one of the girls from each arm, only setting them down when Lirath toddled over, jealously crying for his turn.

After her parents' deaths Liadrin became more soft-spoken and serious, a foretelling of her personality after the Scourge attacked. Death changed them all.

_"Eat_ ," she orders.

Half of the room flinches. Finally, Geya'rah steps forward, her bulky form pushing past the Pandarens beside her, and selects a turkey leg from a silver platter, not bothering with a plate or napkin. After she takes her first bite, ripping meat from the bone enthusiastically, the dam is broken and the rest of the leaders swarm the table. Thrall and Saurfang abstain, but Gallywix funnels sweet rolls into his mouth as if he's never eaten a day in his life. Sylvanas rolls her eyes.

She hears Nathanos in her right ear, "We missed an opportunity to raise a whole nation of Forsaken. A little arsenic..."

She smirks. Undoubtedly that thought process was the reason for their delay, as if she's mad enough to have them forge an undead suicide pact instead of signing her peace treaty.

But then she remembers her rampage after Hellscream's trial, after Little Moon left her again. She was so vulnerable, so ashamed of missing her sister, so disappointed that she'd opened her heart to the possibility of having her broken family returned to her side. She realized then, bathed in wolf blood and the razor-sharp pain of betrayal, that she could still weep.

A thousand thoughts flash through her mind: she remembers her morbid plan to slay her sisters at their family home, the way Summermoon's mournful eyes faded, reborn with an unnatural blue glow. How Delaryn loathed and pitied her, but with arrows in her back and fire in her eyes she became faithful to the cause, a true Dark Ranger.

_Why? My hatred for Menethil sustained me._

_"I grieve for you."_

She remembers the shadow of her finger on Jaina's anchor pendant. How she almost voiced that the chain was too thick for her frame, an idle, intrusive thought.

They are all wise not to trust her. Her sardonic smile fades.

_Pathetic fool._

She wastes no more time. "Fill your plates and open your ears. Today all the Horde signs a Unification Treatise, a document that will forge a lifetime of peace for ourselves and our descendants. No more shall we battle against the Alliance in mindless squabbles. Today we begin an era of rebuilding, and refocusing on the true enemies of Azeroth, those who wish to cull our very existence: Azshara and N'zoth."

Whispers fill the room, intermingling with the sound of shuffling papers. Copies of the Treatise had been distributed earlier, though few beside Thalyssra and Talanji had read theirs in earnest. Saurfang had been previously warned of the meeting in Orgrimmar, and Sylvanas didn't miss the lack of surprise on his grim face when she broke the news the day prior.

_Someone told him before me. Varok must still be playing with his darlings in the Alliance, and Thrall no doubt corresponds with Proudmoore._

But across the room, one mistrusting face catches her attention again. Liadrin stares at her: challenging, _questioning_ , her copy of the Treatise rolled in her fist, as if she holds a dagger at the ready. There is doubt on her face, the unhidden statement that she does not believe the Warchief can achieve what she claims she will achieve. She says nothing, but Sylvanas' red eyes study her keenly.

"Mindless squabbles?" Talanji asks. She rises from her chair, voice clear. "Thousands of my people are dead by Anduin Wrynn's orders. I have read the terms of this treaty. There is no defeated party; there is no victor. Who will pay indemnity for Zuldazar? Where is the tribute for the murder of the Zandalari? What will the Alliance do to heal these scars?"

The room tenses. Little shockwaves of hushed movement ripple through the crowd. The other trolls nod in agreement, faces hard.

For one moment, Sylvanas entertains the notion that she could let loose her wail, an easy, indelible solution, forever subduing Talanji and her complaints. She could kill her, raise her, and be done with this back-and-forth, but then Proudmoore would win. How disgusting would it be for the Alliance to sign their half of the treaty, only to have the Horde refuse?

It would be more embarrassing than sending Anya back up the stairs of Proudmoore Keep to point out that they couldn't leave without a fucking portal.

_Another Proudmoore power play, her parting shot. Her whole bizarre apology act was a ruse._

Sylvanas leans forward, resting her elbow on the table and her face in an open palm. "A mutual surrender for a mutual victory. Compensation will be paid to both sides. For now, you are agreeing to the ceasefire. Other details are still being negotiated, as are the expectations for the Unified Peers program."

"You ask us to sign fealty without knowing the terms," Talanji says. "Neither side will be satisfied, nor pacified."

That ember of rage rises again in Sylvanas, easily doused by a single thought: _she's almost as bad as Jaina, but no match._

Perhaps, if this conversation had happened the day prior, Talanji and the rest of the Horde leaders would lay drowning in puddles of their own blood. But she'd had ample time to release her anger in Boralus, screaming and snatching at Proudmoore's hands. Rightfully calling her a hypocrite for her words, for clutching Sylvanas' face with such _hostility_ when she herself hissed not to be touched.

With the heat of Proudmoore's hand on the cold, dead skin of her cheek-- an infuriating violation of Sylvanas' space-- she knew she could tilt the scales. She could unhorse Jaina and all her feigned niceties.

_You're as much a monster as I am,_ she did not say aloud. _No more pretending. Hate is honest. Hate is true._

But Jaina remained steadfast in her defiance, her chest rising and falling rapidly as Sylvanas touched her necklace, silver shining beneath her purple gauntlet. She dare not touch her directly with her mutilated, Forsaken hands. Proudmoore needed no more animus to use as fodder against her.

Upon their return to Orgrimmar, she'd aggressively questioned and reprimanded Anya for her bizarre interaction with Fordragon in the greenhouse-- _Why did you let her touch you? Are you angling for information?_ \-- before finally tearing into a scrawny doe Nathanos trapped for her. Its blood calmed her.

For being wholly dead, Sylvanas feels more alive when she eats and sleeps. She goes months without-- it's a want, not a need-- and feels the clarity of the Banshee when she withholds mortal comforts. She feels less vulnerable when she embraces her undeath, despite the cruelty that comes with it.

But eating and sleeping induce pain and regret: she remembers things more clearly, and loathes the sentimentality of it. She feels uncertain and repentant. The evening-out, the smoothing, feels wretched in what's left of her heart. A piece of her wishes she hadn't drank from the mangy doe, hadn't pooled its spirit into her mouth by way of its ruptured arteries. She ate in the throne room, where the polished marble floor makes it easy to clean any messes, not that she made them. Sylvanas is not a wasteful woman.

She could have eaten more, but didn't have the time to catch it. Next time she would explicitly request something less flighty. The doe's blood dances in her mind, urging her to run, to find her herd. The creature's spirit will influence her for hours in little, unremarkable ways; a stranger byproduct of being a Banshee reconnected to her body. The other Forsaken do not experience what she does.

_Better a doe than a bear before this meeting. For their sakes._

Though she didn't voice it, she counted herself lucky that Nathanos trapped her a sickly beast at all, so thin are the lands around Orgrimmar. She misses the hunt.

_At least,_ she reasons, _I have much prey here to occupy my mind._

"You are correct, Queen Talanji," Sylvanas drawls. "But the Horde cannot afford to spend any longer nitpicking bureaucratic terms with the Alliance. The ceasefire must begin now.

"As such, your keen mind and questions are why you will be the Chair of the Horde representation on the Reparations Council. You will have the final say over a council of two additional members of your choosing, and you will outline our terms with an Alliance peer. The High King will provide you the names of his council members by dusk. I expected a draft in one month's time."

Talanji stands in shock, back ramrod straight, confused by the dubious honor and responsibility now placed upon her shoulders. She lightly shakes her head before sitting, but says nothing else as she flips through the terms of the treaty again.

Lor'themar asks, "Dark Lady, forgive me, but where is the High Chieftain? I was under the impression this meeting was mandatory."

"Bloodhoof has another task to attend. He has separately agreed to the terms of this peace, and will sign upon his return."

She does not add, _If he returns._

She graciously meted out his punishment for freeing Derek Proudmoore. Not torture or imprisonment-- she needed to keep his transgressions private-- but an epochal task nonetheless: find and subdue Tyrande Whisperwind. She has read the reports; the Horde's supply routes are razed, their soldiers are missing. Tyrande is tearing a bloody trail across Kalimdor the likes of which only Azshara could match.

But, if Tyrande kills him, it would mean more even more reparations from the Alliance, one more data point in her favor. Yesterday she felt no measure of guilt at potentially losing Bloodhoof to the cause, a necessary sacrifice for the Horde. He should not have betrayed her trust if he could not pay the price. Today, she wonders if she is violating the doctrine of her own treaty by endangering him.

Of one thing she is certain: Tyrande is not present in the Silver Enclave, not adding her graceful signature to the Alliance's list in looping cursive. If she was that close to Sylvanas, the High Priestess would have already riddled her undead body with every arrow in her quiver, leaving a mangled pincushion where a Warchief once stood.

She feels no fear at the thought. Tyrande's absence means Wrynn has not found her either.

She's seen none of the Alliance leadership since her arrival, a small mercy knowing the tension that permanently clouds their interactions. She cannot decide which of them would cause her the most trouble, barring Tyrande herself.

_Proudmoore? My sisters? The unbearable Greymane, or a real dark horse like Shandris Feathermoon?_

Slowly, more questions arise around her. Rommath asks about the return of prisoners. Mayla Highmountain asks how often they'll be expected to interact with their Alliance peer, and how they should handle bringing an Alliance figurehead onto Horde territory.

Sylvanas answers in diplomatic monotone, interspersed with additional information on the sub-clauses from Thalyssra. The First Arcanist had apparently memorized the document after providing her commentary last week, another indicator of her wicked intelligence.

A long hour passes, full of questions and answers, but one voice remains silent for longer than usual. Saurfang has said nothing, barely glancing down at the Treatise in his hand. There is a pause in the discussion, and his gravelly baritone fills the room.

"I feel no kinship with the Alliance. There is no love in my heart for what they've done. But there is no honor in dying at Azshara's hands when we stand stronger united. I will rejoice to see Anduin Wrynn's Lion Guard at my back, slaying naga beside me. We have lost too much to refuse allies." He turns his harsh gaze to Sylvanas at the head of the table. "I am ready to sign."

_How deeply he hates me._ _He believes I am unfit, yet he will accept my Treatise. For the Horde._

"Thank you, High Overlord. You honor us with your wisdom," Sylvanas says. She exerts all her willpower not to sound sarcastic or demeaning. Sincerity does not come easily to her anymore, but she notices the way Saurfang still peers up at her, mistrust in every wrinkle.

She extends a white feather quill to him as he rises from his seat, heavy with purpose, and slides the parchment to her left, her own name already signed at the top. Behind him, Thrall nods, calm appreciation clear on his face.

The Horde witnesses Saurfang stand beside Sylvanas as he scratches his name onto the parchment, letters large and ungainly.

A line forms behind him, wrapping once around the massive table. They sign the Unification Treatise, all of them, some enthusiastically, some fearfully. None can say what the future holds, but for the first time in nearly five decades, the Horde has taken a harmonized step toward peace with the Alliance.

When the signing is finished the room settles into pockets of people eating and chatting and trying to figure out what they'll do with their peers. Ji Firepaw offers to preemptively trade so he can have Aysa Cloudsinger. "The devil you know," he says, biting into an apple tart.

Sylvanas watches the room, quelling the urge to celebrate her success. There is something empowering in what she's done, in this half-victory; no other Warchief accomplished what she accomplished. This is an uphill battle, but they've taken the first steps in achieving an astonishing, unthinkable goal. Though the assignment of the peers will be an onerous undertaking.

"One more item on the docket," she says. "I'm afraid there's no such thing as a free lunch, and there is one additional aspect of this treaty worthy of discussion. You will all attend my wedding on Winter's End. The location is to be determined, but I look forward to presenting my consort to each of you. Expect to see a great deal more of Lord Admiral Jaina Proudmoore."

The room erupts in shock and noise, Thrall chokes on a mug of ale, and Sylvanas smiles in earnest, the fangs that Jaina hates so much peeking out between her lips.

* * *

They move at night, silent as an owl's wings. On Ash'alah's back, Maiev prays to Elune.

The goddess has shown her strength, her wrath. It drips off of Tyrande in inky black waves, most evident when the dark moon is full and the ground is wet with blood. For the first time in centuries, Maiev feels fear, a crippling doubt that sits in her stomach like starvation, but she prays for guidance, and follows the Night Warrior.

Tyrande has such faith; Elune guides her to a reckoning. She will grant her people justice.

Maiev quells the small voice that tells her to run. That this shell is not Tyrande as she's always known her, that this is a shadow, an open wound, a monstrosity that should never have been born. This is not faith. This woman who moans into her mouth and drags her fingernails across her scalp is not the High Priestess. Tyrande would never allow this sin, this lust.

_I am stronger than Malfurion. I will do what must be done._

The camp last night was sparsely guarded: an orc and a blood elf huddled near a paltry fire, a second wandering orc scout, all inattentive, as if they begged to be eviscerated.

The blood elf was young and blonde. He had a strong chin, long face, and tender, lonely eyes. As Maiev ripped her glaive from his sternum, she could not help but think of Jarod.

_Nothing is ever easy._

Afterwards Tyrande writhed in her lap, rivulets of orc blood dripping down her silver dress, desperate for Maiev's touch. Her lips parted and her fingers dug beneath the black and green armor. She took Maiev's face into her hands, black eyes locked with white, as unnatural as the moon over Darkshore. She pressed her wet tongue between Maiev's lips, pulling at her hair, riding her fingers and kissing and screaming.

It felt so good to touch her again; Maiev still feels lost in it. It feels so good to fuck her.

The paranoia of the first time slips further and further from her mind. She suppressed the shame and the heat that overwhelmed her, overriding the voice that told her to stop, to not touch Malfurion's wife, the traitor, the murderer, the one who freed Illidan. Do not touch this perversion of Tyrande.

But when she held Tyrande's neck in her grip, the voice vanished. Maiev keenly missed the power her hands held, the connection and freedom of their use on another woman's body. She has been imprisoned so long, in a multitude of sinister ways. She hadn't known the kiss of a lover since Naisha, poor, crushed, abandoned Naisha who loved her from start to finish, though she never once deserved it.

Maiev will not allow Tyrande's hands to stray too far in return, to bring her the same ecstasy she doles out nightly. She fears what it would mean if she did.

But now it is day. She sits on the porch of the ramshackle farmhouse, its tenants long dead or homeless, more night elf victims of the Horde. She thinks it was foolish to have built a home so near Blackfathom Deeps.

_But no,_ she amends. _It was foolish to have built a home at all._

She can see Tyrande's sleeping form through the open door. The steady rise and fall of her chest, naked except for the thin sheets Maiev found in a looted closet beside a child's moonkin doll, threadbare and forgotten. She set it on a dusty shelf in the bedroom, its head lolling to one side.

Eleven thousand years ago, she had a moonkin doll too. Eleven thousand years ago, she would hunt with her mother in the deep forests of Teldrassil.

She moves slowly now, unarmored, hands clasped into pensive fists. Every day she wakes earlier than Tyrande, who sleeps as if the sun depletes her and only the moon's glow can rouse her again. In the light, it feels like she could suck the poison from her bloodstream, cure her of this insidious possession, but then the moon rises and she is sick again.

They teeter between blasphemy and zealotry, and Maiev knows that soon she will plummet into a grave that's waited long enough. This journey, this companionship, will not last. Not after they kill Sylvanas.

Her whole life she has been trapped. By her birthright, by her station, by her duty. She is a jailer who feels like a prisoner, one who succumbed to Tyrande's trap so easily. Was it loneliness? Was she like her widower brother or the obsessed, warped Illidan? Her return to Azeroth was meant to be a homecoming, but it was never the same. Even before Teldrassil, there was a fracture in her heart.

She gazes out at the high grasses and sandy dunes, at the fattened vultures that circle overhead. The carrion revel in the feast spread before them.

She seems like the real Tyrande when she first wakes. Lucid and sane, until it slips away like a discarded robe falling from her shoulders. She holds Maiev in the night when she's tortured by the visions of her jail cell and burning trees and the crushed bodies of her Wardens. Sargeras and Illidan and Sylvanas haunt her.

How softly she'd kissed her lips, delicate in a way Maiev had never known. She seems less like the Night Warrior in those moments, when the pink dawnlight peeks over the Stonetalon Mountains, and the warmth of her body is a comforting blanket. She curled Maiev up and shushed her, stroking her pale hair until they both slept again. 

The High Priestess does not grow cold anymore; the goddess burns through her. Maiev wonders if she will return to Malfurion when this is done. She would not blame her.

A part of her is disgusted with herself for touching Tyrande, for betraying Shan'do, but she owes him no allegiance either. He's abandoning his people because the alternative is difficult and frightening, and he always runs away. Malfurion retreats, a cowardly hermit, one who could never suffice for the Night Warrior. Maiev hunts, she does not hide.

A blotchy shape forms on the eastern skyline: shadows cast by humanoid figures.

"Tyrande, someone's coming," Maiev rasps. She sees the outline of massive horns against the horizon. "Taurens."

Tyrande wakes slowly, the sweet expression on her face half-hidden by her pillow. She is the most lovely in the daytime when she first wakes, before Elune refocuses her brutal intent. Her teal hair cascades around her neck, not yet braided for travel.

She rises, nude, with only their thin white sheet draped around her shoulders. She retrieves her quiver and bow, Elun'tara, from beside the moonkin doll. She stands over Maiev on the porch, thoughtlessly grazing her ear with her free hand. Maiev resists the urge to shiver. She wishes she wore her helmet.

The Taurens continue their approach, nearly twenty of them adorned in Horde colors, bright with the beads and feathers of Thunder Bluff's tribes. At the lead, one wears a massive headdress, marking him undoubtedly as the High Chieftain.

"That's Baine Bloodhoof."

They walk slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal, as if seeking a parlay. Maiev wonders how the tauren could have found them before Shandris.

_Should have never asked a Sentinel to do a Warden's job._

They do not move stealthily or unsheathe their weapons for an attack. She sees no sign of a looming battle, no blaring war horns or shouts to surrender. They are Horde warriors, but openly approach as allies.

"So it is," says Tyrande.

She aims at his broad chest, and expertly fires her bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, sisters!
> 
> EDIT: Holy shit!!!! MAIEV FANART FROM [VICE-VEREESA](https://vice-vereesa.tumblr.com/)!!! Look at this beautiful, scarred warden babe! I love her! I love her so much!! Also, go read [Envelopes of Suspect Origin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581342/chapters/56579473) if you aren't already. [@vice-vereesa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vice_vereesa) writes a deliciously clever Sylvaina (and more!) romcom letterfic and it sends me straight to heaven.


	8. Tyrande, Alleria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that my Shandris looks like Mackenzie Davis. ❤️

The arrow juts through Maiev's left hand, piercing her so deeply that the fletching brushes against her fingertips. Blood pours down the shaft of the arrow and her arm, pooling around the dirty planks of the farmhouse porch, and she curls into herself, teeth bared, eyes wide. Blackness courses through her veins, dark enough to be visible through her purple skin. Her right hand clutches at her left wrist like a tourniquet.

Tyrande stands over her in shock.

"Tyrande, is this poisoned?" Maiev gasps, " _Tyrande!_ "

The Warden sprung forward with brutal efficiency, her arm outstretched to stop her at any cost, careless of the damage she could do to herself. She caught her arrow, her body forced into a perfect line. It ripped through the calloused flesh of her hand as she shouted, "No!"

Tyrande tilts her head. She shot Maiev, who kisses new miracles onto her skin each night, who helps her hunt, an honor to Elune. She shot a kaldorei. There is a small, creeping sensation of wrongness that drips up her spine, prickling at the base of her head. It nestles as deep in her mind as Maiev's screams of agony.

The tauren are running toward them, Bloodhoof in the lead. Her fingers itch to fire again or to heal Maiev. The sun is so bright she does not feel the goddess moving through her.

They point weapons at her. "Stop!" Bloodhoof bellows, still sprinting. "She is not our enemy! Lower your weapons!"

Far in the distance, Ash'alah bounds forward at the commotion. The great white saber cat roars, sprinting to Tyrande's side, leaving a wide berth of the tauren, half of whom now aim their bows at her.

Maiev groans at her feet, cheek pressed into the porch, white hair turning pink as it soaks up her blood. Her shoulders twist and roil as she begins to pant. She will lose consciousness soon.

"Wait," she tells Ash'alah. The beast growls and sniffs at Maiev, fur along her back spiked in agitation.

The spirit does not move within Tyrande. She has been stripped of her powers, her prodigious healing abilities-- she has not even tried to heal since Teldrassil. Elune gave her other gifts now. She blinks into the sun, an empty vessel. She should not be awake.

"Tyrande Whisperwind, we mean you no harm." Baine raises his arms overhead, slowing to a walk. His eyes flicker back and forth between the elven women, worry evident on his face. For a moment, he glances past her into the farmhouse, at Maiev's black and gold armor on the floor. His speaks in measured tones, "I'm sure this was an accident: you didn't know it was me. We can help each other."

Tyrande waits for the sign, the taste of volcanic ash in her mouth, the telltale sign that the Night Warrior's path is illuminated, the signal that she must do great violence in the name of her butchered people. For Teldrassil.

Nothing happens. Maiev is quiet, curled into a fetal position.

She draws her bow on him.

"Heal her," she orders.

"Put that down, Tyrande. I will heal her without your threats." 

He waves off the warriors behind him, the massive longbows lower, and asks. "What poison is this?"

He crouches beside Maiev, examining her wound. She is still as a grave beside him. A cloud of horrid worry runs amok inside her mind, its provenance she cannot discern. It feels like when she could not find Malfurion in the Emerald Dream. It feels like when Shandris disappeared to Draenor. It feels like Tyrande is afraid.

The fury of the Night Warrior dwindles, the burning doused by fear. The sun beats down on her bare shoulders.

"Priestshood."

He looks at her uncertainly, shaking his head, careful not to clip her with his horns. She stares impassively down, cognizant for the first time of her nakedness, and that Baine is actively blocking her and Maiev from the sight of the others, maintaining her propriety. She blinks heavily at him, brow furrowed, rocked back that she feels no rage in her heart.

"A'kewaneehalo," she says in Taur-ahe. She has not spoken the Tauren language in years; her voice sounds distant, a shout from a hilltop miles away. "Wolfsblood."

Baine pulls a sprig of thyme from a satchel at his hip and mutters to himself, "Ah, that was a foolish and noble thing to do, Maiev Arrowcatcher."

He calls for another of the tauren, an antlered woman with a feathered staff, who dips her head respectfully at Tyrande as she approaches. She does not recognize her, but sees that she carries a jar of honey, bright orange comb still intact within, which she smears on Maiev's bloody hand, mixing it into shades of brown like the dirt of Ashenvale. Ash'alah's tail flicks in annoyance.

Together, the tauren snap the arrow in half, sliding the shaft smoothly out of Maiev's palm. They chant in unison, a prayer to the Earth Mother, and the skin of her hand seals together.

A tickling voice in Tyrande's mind says, _She will need more than that to survive._ It is the High Priestess' voice, her own voice, an experienced, powerful healer.

Baine looks back to her, articulating what she does not, "We need to take her somewhere with more healers, Tyrande. We can care for her in Thunder Bluff."

"No," she says flatly.

He rises, placing himself between Tyrande and Maiev. "She will die out here. You know what Wolfsblood does."

Ten thousand years ago she studied it, and the passage from the ancient Darnassian tome is still clear in her mind: _The toxins of the purple Priestshood plant are particularly nefarious. While the effect of the fast-acting poison is evident by blackened blood, respiratory paralysis, and heart failure, any ingestion or introduction of Priestshood into one's bloodstream takes weeks for the patient's body to filter. While honey, thyme, and magic can staunch the immediate effects of the poison, there is no perfect remedy but rest and time under the eyes of a skilled restoration specialist. When untreated, the patient's heart will atrophy within a month, causing rhythm abnormalities that result in death._

"I will tend her myself."

Baine looks deeply into her obsidian eyes. "You would not have asked me to heal her if you could do it, Tyrande."

Thunder Bluff is farther from Orgrimmar. They will be in the heart of Kalimdor, deep in the Horde's territory. But Maiev is limp in the tauren druid's arms. She looks small and fragile, the way she looks when she wakes in a sweat, roused by nightmares.

"You will be honored guests in Thunder Bluff. I promise it. You have my word that we will heal her."

_There is a better chance of getting to Sylvanas on the High Chieftan's word. He may bring me to her. He will heal Maiev._

"Very well."

She turns inside, sets Elun'tara on a shelf, and begins to braid her hair. The winter sun burns bright in the sky.

* * *

Alleria rips through the void portal to Lor'Danel, stiff and sore, shaking off her ache from the proximity to the Light. There were too many of them in the room-- Turalyon, Arator, Anduin, their paladins-- she still feels the nausea pulsing over her.

Tears well in her eyes, not from her illness or the voice screaming to slay them all, but from the emotional drain of it; the knowing that she's disappointed them once again. She could not be part of Anduin's peace. Not with Sylvanas. Not with Jaina her prisoner.

_This is madness. Why does no one else see?_

THEY CANNOT SEE. THEY MUST BE TAUGHT TO SEE. END THEM.

Her void elves follow behind her, silent and worried, as she resists the urge to run. The scent of the Lor'Danel pine trees calm her enough that she plants her feet in the dying grass, and faces the remains of Teldrassil. The ocean waves are grey and lazy, thick with the chill of winter.

She bolted from Dalaran, ignoring the cries behind her: her husband's, her son's, her king's. They didn't understand how they hurt her, in the core of her being and in her heart, splitting and bleeding and burning. She couldn't be near them, the scalding pain is too intense, too bright. Alleria could not sign their treaty knowing they would inevitably be betrayed by her sister again.

THEY WILL ALL BETRAY YOU. ESPECIALLY HER. END THEM.

The Alliance spent hours bickering, questioning, asking for ten hundred details that couldn't possibly be provided yet. A rising terror built in Alleria's gut, the memory of her sister wailing at the Spire, ghoul intestines splayed around her on the ground. She felt hollow when she and the night elves reported that they could not locate Tyrande, Jaina's crestfallen face all the sign she needed to know that they were still in danger of this plan collapsing before it began.

When the time came to sign, she edged against a panic attack.

More forms pass through her portal, and the sorrowful eyes of Shandris Feathermoon stare at her back, blue and bright and sympathetic. Her pity stings the worst, as wretched as Vereesa's.

Her sister stared blankly at her when Anduin outlined the Unification Treatise, when Jaina broke the news of the wedding. She looked magnificent in her polished armor, sophisticated and refined. Alleria and her void elves were ragged; they wore travel clothes and battle leathers, dirty from use. Only Shandris and her night elves looked equally tattered. The rest were elegant as royalty.

Vereesa's face was like an empty glass. She looked so much like their mother. She did not respond to the news.

_She knew._

Tears fall, hot and thick down her cheeks. She wishes the others hadn't followed her. They are always worried.

_Little Moon didn't warn me. Jaina didn't warn me._

Alleria has lived for three thousand years, and berates herself for the petty, childish jealousy that grips her heart. She arrived just before the meeting was called to order; she knows neither had the time to speak with her privately. But she is always an outsider, no matter the circle. At least Vereesa and Jaina had each other.

YOU HAVE NO ONE BUT US. BRING THEM TO US.

Her shoulders shake from the thundering of the voice in her head, from the embarrassment of her behavior. The movement jostles her still-broken ribs, the muted sting a reminder that she deserves the pain. Everyone signed but her, even Vereesa, even Shandris.

"Alleria," says Shandris. She hears the crunch of her footsteps in the dry grass. "Do you want to be alone?"

Her mind cycles through responses, contradictory and confusing. She likes the sound of her name in Shandris' mouth.

Alleria sat between Shandris and Turalyon at the table in the Silver Enclave, leaning away from him. When she realized that he saved her a seat beside him and that she did not miss him for a moment in her absence, her stomach churned.

She remembers Turalyon's face, perplexed and displeased, and how he watched Shandris place her hand over Alleria's clenched fist when she first gasped at Anduin's words. How Turalyon reached for her too, only to withdraw when she flinched. The guilt buries her again.

When the parchment passed around the table, she heard Turalyon and Arator trying to tell her to sign it, that they were finally making the world a better place, that the growing pains would be worth it.

She won't. She can't. This is a trap. She wants to embrace the Void.

"Alleria? You're shivering."

Warmth blossoms on her shoulder. Shandris' palm is gentle but firm; she isn't holding her in place, not trapping her so she cannot leave. She is simply present. Alleria yearns for more contact: an embrace, warm and safe. She longs for feelings that she barely recognizes anymore.

There is shame in her desperation, in craving the touch of a woman she hardly knows. Tears fall and she closes her eyes. She still sees Turalyon's disappointed face.

"I support you in your decision. You have the right not to sign," Shandris breathes. She stands close behind her, voice low her in her ears.

Alleria shivers again, swallowing thickly. Her lips quiver and she tries not to whimper. She is a pale, starving little shadow.

Shandris continues, quieter, her voice hardly a whisper. "There are so few of us left. We need the Alliance. The kal'dorei will not survive on our own, not without Tyrande and Malfurion, and peace." Her hand falls away from her shoulder; its absence disturbs Alleria. "I feel alone, and I need help. I know it's so weak after what was done to us, but _please_ forgive me for signing."

The impact of her words rushes down Alleria's spine like a waterfall. Shandris should not be the one apologizing.

Alleria failed to find Tyrande, failed to keep herself safe, failed to sign the treaty. She could hardly speak a word to her husband and son, knowing only that she wanted to flee from them. She is an absolute failure.

"You shouldn't be sorry for it," she says. She cannot face her; her voice and knees are too unsteady. The Veiled Sea shimmers, uncaring in the setting sun. "There is nothing to forgive."

She wipes her nose ungracefully, sniffling in the frosty wind. Her skin prickles with goosebumps, and she curses herself for her weaknesses.

Shandris' fingers return to her arm, lower now, blanketing the flesh above her wrist. She can feel the heat of her body through her armor; they are nearly pressed together.

"Alleria, will you come with me out of the cold?"

The winter air is not unbearable with Shandris standing behind her, but she wants to be even warmer.

"Yes," she whispers.

Shandris takes her hand, lightly turning her around, leading them back to her tent. Behind her, the void elves and Sentinels who escorted them to Dalaran huddle together, eyes pointedly looking away from the shoreline, as if they fear leaving them alone but wanted to allow them privacy.

As soon as they look up, Alleria lowers her head. The shame of her weeping, her outburst at the meeting, is too much. Shandris nods at them with a tiny smile, guiding her away from their concerned eyes. She opens the flap of her purple tent, and they step through.

Inside is warm, comfortable, and private. The fire in the center burns brightly, wafts of smoke rising through the small hole in the ceiling. Alleria does not know what to do with herself, so she stands perfectly still and the tears dry on her cheeks.

"Here," says Shandris. She unhooks Thas'dorah and her quiver, setting them on the writing desk beside her own bow.

"May I take off your armor? It's going to snow tonight, and we need to keep warm. I have clothes for us."

Alleria nods and Shandris kneels, unlatching her greaves. She works quickly, fingers practiced and deft, only stopping at the sight of a deep bone bruise on her shin. She examines it for a moment, hand grazing her calf, before rising and continuing to her pauldrons.

Alleria closes her eyes, standing statue-still. Tears well up again, embarrassment and frustration bubbling in her heart. She wishes her skin looked the way it used to in Quel'Thalas, when she was truly Lady Sun, before the scars and Draenor and L'ura. She hates presenting this battered canvas.

The intimacy of it is painful. She is so far removed from the world of touch and tenderness that she cannot process what her actions mean. She wants to stand on her tiptoes and kiss her. She wants to be held.

But Shandris is kind to everyone. She is strong and loving, and has laid her hands on the arms of all of the void elves, showing her gratitude, her camaraderie. Alleria thinks that her people have grown to love the Sentinel-General more than her, and she cannot fault them for it.

She thoughtfully piles the armor beside her, taking care not to scuff it. She is mindful and respectful, and Alleria feels stripped bare in every way.

_It doesn't mean anything that she treats me well._

When Alleria finally stands in her underclothes, Shandris retrieves a set of woolen pajamas from a chest at the end of her cot, dyed forest green and cut to fit a night elf. "These will be too big for you, but they were the smallest I could find." She presses them into Alleria's bare arms, and softly says, "I'm going to get us dinner. Get changed and I'll be right back."

She waits until Alleria nods again, then disappears out of the tent.

The pajamas are far too big, the sleeves dangle over her hands, but they're soft and comfortable. She looks around the sparse room, unsure of what to do with herself, before she sits down on her pallet on the floor. It's not as hard as she remembers, and looks as if more blankets were added to her pile.

After a few minutes, Shandris returns carrying a tray with two bowls of rabbit stew and warm bread. She sets it down beside the pallet and says, "It's no feast, but it's all fresh today. Feel free to start. I'm going to change." 

She rises and undresses effortlessly, pulling a pair of blue cotton pajamas from her chest. She has mostly-healed battle wounds of her own: lavender scars from slashing swords and piercing arrows. There is no shame in her nudity, but an ephemeral warmth spreads across Alleria's cheeks at the sight of Shandris' bare back.

She lowers her voyeuristic eyes to her bowl.

Shandris pulls her head through her shirt and turns back around. "May I sit with you?"

Alleria nods, spooning a piece of potato in her stew. She takes a small bite. It's more flavorful than the prior meals served in Lor'Danel, not that she would ever complain about it. The Sentinels did their best to feed the survivors in the camp, and Alliance-friendly trade wagons are harder and harder to come by on Kalimdor. Perhaps that would change soon. She scowls.

"Is it not to your liking?" Shandris asks between bites.

"No, it's not that," Alleria murmurs. "The stew is delicious; thank you. I'm sorry. I'm very tired. I didn't mean to seem ungracious."

She thinks of waking for the first time in Shandris' tent, soft fingers combing through her hair. Despite her broken bones and aching body, she had not been woken so tenderly in years.

She wonders how they can sit like this, like girls at a slumber party awake far past their bedtime, telling secrets and pondering what life could hold for them, when they have armies to lead and civilizations to save. She wonders too, why her proximity to Shandris reminds her of childhood friend, Aienna, the one who taught her how to kiss one night under the covers of her bed in-between fits of giggles. 

Aienna died in the Scourge. She had no friends now. Even Vereesa and Jaina kept secrets.

Her void elves are loyal but a degree of separation exists between them, born of militaristic propriety. She is their commander first. Narrina and Corion told her that Shandris herself had re-arranged the camp for their sleeping quarters to be nearer to her own, nearer to their leader, and demonstrated tremendous forbearance with their hovering and need for constant updates.

But for all Shandris' burdens, she sits in a flimsy tent, coddling Alleria Windrunner, who spurned her own family and the will of her King.

She can still see the strain on Shandris' face when Tyrande is mentioned. The longing of a daughter for her mother, and the fear of a General for her absent High Priestess. The power vacuum that only she can fill. And now, with the peace signed into existence by nearly everyone, she sees the absolute terror that Tyrande could doom the night elves to permanent isolation-- undefended by the Alliance, completely alone, an unacceptable position on the battlefield-- with her revenge. The fear that she will kill Sylvanas and ruin everything.

Alleria closes her eyes. On a fundamental level, she could not trust her sister.

Sylvanas, after everything that was done to their family, to Quel'Thalas, became the Horde's Warchief. She is the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken. She was her greatest rival and staunchest supporter, an arrogant trick-shot on the range. She is the murderer who burned the World Tree. She was the first person she went to for advice, the one who baked her sugar cookies late at night when the rest of the Spire slept.

She cannot reconcile Sylvanas in her mind. Her heart aches.

"Why are you doing all this?" Alleria asks.

Shandris sits cross-legged beside her, her index finger mindlessly scratching at the side of her bowl. She takes a deep breath, as if inhaling her surprise at being asked, and says, "I think we should be taking care of each other in times like these. No one is taking care of you, and you deserve it."

She wants to argue that, _no, in fact, I deserve nothing good_ , but she's had enough quarreling for one day and Shandris won't be happy if she does. She wants to say that she was sent to Darkshore to help her, not the other way around, but instead she falls back on a classic Windrunner deflection technique: humor.

"So I'm a pity case because of the tackling thing, Lady Feathermoon?" she smiles.

Shandris laughs, "Yes, an absolute pity case. It looks like I may even have to spoon-feed you."

Alleria holds up her spoon in defeat, and says, "No, I'll behave." She eats the hearty stew, dipping her bread into the last sopping puddles at the bottom, hungrier than she thought.

When she finishes, Shandris says, "I'm sorry about today. It was... difficult. I never had any desire to lead the night elves, only my Sentinels. I'm just a General. The meeting felt like a vice grip that I couldn't escape, the final nail in the coffin of my people. We can never return to the way we were before, and now they look to me for answers. As much as I am sick with this war, how can I be expected to maintain peace with the Horde?"

Alleria gives her no reply, she has no answers either, but places her empty bowl on the tray and curls her knees against her chest. The pajamas are soft, and offer the luxury of comfort she has not felt in ages.

Finally, Alleria says, "I don't know. I feel exhausted. Lost."

Aquamarine eyes openly survey her face. Shandris curls her own knees up, as if mimicking her, her cheek resting on her arms.

"I do too."

They sit side-by-side, a hands-width apart, staring at each other for a long moment. The thrum of her heartbeat sounds in her ears. She should not want what she wants, but Shandris is looking at her, and she cannot recall why she should stop herself from speaking.

"Will you sleep here with me?" Alleria breathes. Her voice catches, suddenly self-conscious, "I don't want to be cold."

There is a pause, and the air between them is charged with heat and tension. Shandris plants her hands on the ground, shifting her body to close the gap.

"Of course."

Alleria exhales softly, then leans down, lowering herself to her elbows, then her back. Her head rests on a pillow. 

Shandris follows behind her smoothly, pulling up the blankets to cover them both. Her arm wraps around her middle, pulling her close in a hug. Alleria shudders against her, tears welling in her eyes. The contact is overpowering, like the rush of sunlight after stepping out of a darkened room.

She rolls to her side, facing the small fire, shyly taking Shadris' hand into both of her own, fingers interlaced. She weeps softly, tears dripping down her cheeks until Shandris gently wipes them away with her fingertips, returning her hand to its rightful place when she's satisfied that no more will fall. She places her forehead on the back of Alleria's neck, sharing her pillow. 

Alleria rests in her arms, held by another for the first time in decades, and realizes that she has not heard the Void since Shandris first spoke on the beach. They fall asleep easily, pressed together in the winter night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if your heart also just ruptured.


	9. Valeera, Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang plays gay chicken.

Valeera sits in the lumpy green armchair, one leg slung over the side as she quietly slides the white bishop to C4, careful that only its felt bottom touches the marble chess table. She is invisible, as usual, and is waiting for Jaina Proudmoore to pay better attention. She'd dismissed Taelia half an hour before, and now sits alone at her writing desk. 

Valeera taps a pawn to her lips. It is a wonder more world leaders don't get murdered in their own homes. Assassination is just not that hard.

_This is why she needs an invisible guard. Even Sylvanas has one._

She extends her reach, delicately selecting a black pawn, and places it on E5. The black pieces won the last game, and are being far too cocky now.

Jaina's hair is down, long and snowy, a far departure from the golden blonde Valeera remembers from Theramore. Granted, she remembers very little of that time outside of the endless mana cravings, Kathra'Natir's oppressive visions, and Aegwynn's sturdy embrace.

Jaina wore purple then, and batted her eyelashes at her night elf bodyguard, Pained. Her smile was broad and easy in Theramore, perhaps because Pained was such a lovely specimen: tall, muscular, protective. 

Jaina and Pained were always kind to Valeera; they never said a word about her lineage, or her addiction. She swallows thickly, and rids her mind of the memories.

Now the ruler of what used to be Thermore sits at her desk in a thick robe and slippers, knuckling at her forehead while she reads. The study is a favorite haunt of hers despite the nighttime chill of the harbor seeping through the windows. The exhaustion of today's meeting in Dalaran-- _the absolute shitshow that it was_ \-- is evident in her dark circles and constant sighing.

Valeera herself never signed the treaty, no one expected her to, but she was just as keenly aware as anyone that Alleria Windrunner, Tyrande Whisperwind, and Malfurion Stormrage failed to add their signatures too. At least Tyrande and Malfurion had the decency to not appear at all. Alleria should never have come for all the obvious discomfort she felt around her husband.

As Valeera sat in the rafters overhead watching Shandris Feathermoon's hand creep over to Alleria's, she wondered if the Sentinel-General would have been able to get her to sign it had they been alone. Perhaps with the help of moody Vereesa, whose sorrowful gaze was on Jaina's back the whole time, except for the spotty moments when she was lost in thought, staring out the window with a softened expression.

In retrospect, the meeting was fascinating to watch, even if its outcome was somewhat disappointing for the Alliance.

That mess aside, the hour grows late, and Jaina should be asleep. The white knight captures the black pawn, and the stone pieces clink together in her palm.

Jaina whirls, one hand tossing up an azure barrier and the other summoning a wicked dagger of ice. Her face peels back in violence-- a pit fighter in the Crimson Ring-- eyes glowing. The scent of her floral magic fills the room like a lit candle.

Valeera smiles and drops her invisibility.

"Thank the gods. I've been over here playing with myself for an hour." She clinks the chess pieces together again before she sets them on the board.

"Fucking hell," Jaina mutters. 

The dagger and barrier vanish into shimmering smoke, and her eyes return to their normal shade. The long-beleaguered look on her face remains as she slouches in her wooden chair. A tiny piece of Valeera is proud that Jaina has learned to relax around her.

"Such language. What happened to 'Oh, golly! Tides be gosh-darned!'"

"You can't do this shit to me, Valeera. I'm not in the mood to have a surprise visit with you. Or to be pinched either."

"Don't be cross," she pouts. "I didn't pinch anyone today." She pauses, "Except Taelia. She was playing with my Dark Ranger toy in Dalaran and I got jealous."

"Translate, please."

Valeera stands, annoyed. She peruses the Lord Admiral's bookshelves, fingering the spines. It's been ages since she went book shopping.

"She was talking to Anya Eversong before the meeting today. I thought, 'What's my little puppy doing meddling with a Dark Ranger like that?' But they were quite cordial. So cordial, in fact, that I'm not certain Anya even noticed me. 

"Let me express my shock on that front: she's extremely perceptive. I've never seen her so... distracted."

She flicks through the pages of a red leather tome full of runic potion recipes for this and that. Not that she can read Dwarven.

She doesn't feel it prudent to tell her the full details of how she came to eavesdrop in Dalaran. Valeera had followed Taelia because _Anya_ was following Taelia as she patrolled beside the Silver Enclave. Anya was a great fun to pester, but no part of Valeera was foolish enough to trust those well-honed shortswords, especially when the Ranger-Captain was tracking Jaina's bodyguard like a panther on the prowl.

But she saw nothing but amiable small talk and a light pink blush on Taelia's cheeks. They made jokes about bringing vines outside, and the weather being better in a greenhouse, but Valeera quickly grew bored of their conversation. It was harmless flirting, a curious thing given the respective parties, but nothing salacious. 

They parted ways shortly thereafter, Anya with a small smile and Taelia with a wide one. 

Jaina says nothing to this news, and makes a valiant attempt to hide the surprise on her face. As always, she looks exhausted, as if the wheels spinning in her mind require a fuel she simply can't provide. 

Valeera isn't overly fond of Jaina-- she isn't overly fond of anyone-- but it would be a shame for her to suffer in silence through this whole peace treaty ordeal. The Wrynns love her, and she stands a better chance than anyone else of making the world better a better place. She's powerful and stubborn and compassionate, but Valeera thinks that she needs just a touch of naughtiness to really tilt the scales. 

"Maybe you should ask her how she's so effectively captured the heart of a Dark Ranger. It may be useful to your near-term success," says Valeera. She turns back to the bookshelves. "Or you could just take my advice instead."

"Forgive me," says Jaina, "but I'm disinclined to ask your opinion, if only due to the large number of times you've been stabbed for surprising people."

"Only twice," she mutters. "Taelia's innocent flirtation is obviously working, but all I'm trying to say is you'd be amazed at what you can get away with when you make demands. By doing things other people simply wouldn't dare to do. How many invisible rogues do you allow in your study at midnight for a friendly life chat?" 

Jaina smiles, but the expression is foreign on her face, as if she's forgotten what it should look like. Valeera sets the stack of books she's collected onto her chair. 

She gets the distinct sense that Jaina is still unwilling to internalize her advice, a very foolish thing to do. She offers her sincerity so rarely, and has a clear perspective on Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner's relationship after watching their clash on the balcony. Not that she can tell her that.

No one else can play the game like they can, and Valeera is far better at it.

"Jaina," she says lowly, approaching the other woman with tantalizing slowness. Her green eyes are half-lidded, focused on her prey. "I watch people constantly, day after day."

She stands over Jaina, hands slowly reaching out to take both armrests in her grip. She leans in closely, forcing Jaina to press back against the chair to avoid touching her nose.

"I've seen Sylvanas Windrunner and her sisters, and she's just as dysfunctional as they are. Such beautiful women, but not a happy thought between them. They're all duty and determination and spite. Don't let her nasty little prodding get under your skin. She's rehearsed what she wants to say, and she hates it when you surprise her." 

She breathes, "Doesn't that sound familiar, sweet Jaina? It's so _unnerving_ sharing your space with someone, especially someone you don't trust. It's so easy to put them where you want them." 

She leans very close to Jaina's lips, relishing that the Lord Admiral has schooled herself to stillness. Her lack of reaction is all Valeera needs to know it's working.

"I suggest you try my methods. They're terribly effective."

Jaina stares at her, then leans forward. For a paralyzing moment, Valeera thinks the whole world is inverting and Jaina Proudmoore is about to kiss her. A wave of discomfort washes over her-- she doesn't think of Jaina romantically, and feels the crush of disappointment that a woman she respected has fallen so easily into her trap-- but just before their lips brush Jaina pulls to the side, whispering in her ear.

"We're not all unrepentant flirts, Valeera."

Valeera stands upright with a laugh, a ringing endorsement of Jaina's skill, a concession. _What a delight._ If she'd been anyone else, Jaina's little trick would have sent shivers down her spine. _Marvelous._

"Ah, I always believed in you, Archmage," she says with a coy smile. 

Jaina surveys her, half-incredulous, half-pleased. "You don't feel anything when you do that, do you?"

Valeera returns to her chair, pulling the stack of books into her lap. She sits cross-legged, thumbing through the pages.

"Nothing but amusement."

She rather enjoys how much fun Jaina could be now that her circumstances had changed. She was never so devious in Theramore. 

"Use it to your advantage that Sylvanas doesn't know a thing about your personality: there's great power in that. She never knew little mage Proudmoore, all shy and sweet."

As soon as she says it, Valeera curses her words. Jaina's amused expression fades, wholly replaced by her typical mask of regret. The woman is so easily lost in her past.

She changes the subject, "You're supposed to be a unified front anyway. You might as well look the part, even if it isn't real. Let people see you together."

Jaina runs her fingers through her hair. "I'll certainly consider it. Though I'm not sure I'll have as much success as you do with... demanding. We're very different creatures, as you know."

"I suspect you'll find it's easier than you think. I hope you try, and soon. You're running out of time before this infamous wedding and, from what I hear, you haven't even picked a venue."

"It's true. The whole situation gnaws at me."

"Then demand that it cease gnawing. Lay down your terms and accept nothing else, but do it with that pretty smile. The Banshee Queen won't stand a chance."

Jaina blinks at her flatly, skepticism plain on her face. She pulls up the fallen shoulder of her robe, bare skin momentarily visible in the moonlight. Valeera wonders how someone as intelligent as Jaina could entirely miss the effect she had on people. She could've used her incredible looks to her advantage ten thousand times over.

"I sincerely doubt a lady's _demure_ smile will be enough to stop her in her tracks," says Jaina. "But I will owe you a game of chess if it works."

"Chess is hardly a prize. I wish for a ride on your pretty new boat, the _Admiral's Pride._ I see her sulking in the harbor when I visit."

"Fair enough." Jaina crosses her legs. "But if Sylvanas sees through your ruse and I make an absolute fool of myself, you must never follow me through a portal again without an explicit invitation."

Valeera frowns. "A hard bargain, but I accept. My advice never fails."

The woman across the room is wilting in spite of herself, sinking deeper into her wooden chair. "But, alack, it's your bedtime, Lady Jaina."

The sleepy mage, ever polite, offers to make her a portal home, but Valeera declines.

"Don't tire yourself out; I have my Hearthstone. You'll be doing battle with the Warchief soon and I'd hate for you to lose." She gestures to the books in her hand and clutches her Hearthstone with the other. As she dissipates she says, "I'm taking these."

Jaina begins to protest, but Valeera emerges in the dark of her small apartment bedroom in Stormwind, and never hears her complaint. She adds the new books to her collection with a smile.

* * *

The last thing she did before falling asleep was scribble a note destined for Orgrimmar. It read:

_It's your turn to host. We have a wedding to plan and these games bore me._

_-Jaina Proudmoore_

It took all of Jaina's self-control to not rewrite the brief letter, to not soften the blow of her words. She, despite her natural affinity for avoiding conflict, listened to Valeera's blasé advice and sent out her demand that very night. Perhaps it is because of the buzzing in her ears, or her chronic lack of sleep, but she thinks that all of her previous experiments with Sylvanas were failures, and Valeera might have a better grasp on this sort of maneuvering than people give her credit for.

She images herself leaning forward, pinning Sylvanas to a chair without ever actually touching her. The visual slips away immediately. There is no world in which Sylvanas would admit defeat like that, on or off the battlefield.

But still, she is so tired of the hollow hatred that consumes and distracts her. She hates herself for grabbing Sylvanas the way she did on the rooftop, snapping at her for baring her teeth like a poorly-trained dog. Jaina knows that she should never have touched her, and that she was, as Sylvanas so viciously stated, a hypocrite.

But the puzzle piece that most devastated her when it fit into place is that Sylvanas Windrunner has had enough happen to her body without her permission.

Jaina is just another name on her list after Arthas Menethil.

That thought rests heavy on her mind as she falls asleep, an anchor pulling her deeper and deeper, regretting with her whole heart that she ever clutched Sylvanas' face in anger.

Her rest is fitful and brief, as always, and full of the faint sound of buzzing. When dawn comes she is already awake and dressed, pouring over reports from Ironforge. Nearly every morning she is roused by nightmares before the sun rises.

She is particularly busy today, which came as no surprise given yesterday's debacle. Among other things, she still regrets not warning Alleria before announcing her marriage. She's not certain it would have encouraged her to sign the Unification Treatise any more than her lack of warning forced her away, but it would have cleared her conscience. She was never as close with her as she was with Vereesa, but Alleria's look of betrayal dug deep beneath her skin and settled in like a disease.

Some part of her hopes that Sylvanas already heard that her sister didn't sign the treaty. No part of her wanted to break that news directly.

The night elves are fractured now, more than ever, since Shandris agreed to the ceasefire. Jaina first felt deep relief that the night elves would be protected, then an oppressive fear that now not only was she in Tyrande's line of fire, but Shandris was too. The High Priestess' absence terrified her on every level.

Reports and messages arrive before breakfast, and she sorts through the pile until she sees the sharp penmanship of Sylvanas. She digs deeply into the parchment when she writes, nearly puncturing the paper.

Her reply reads:

_Then be here at 8 this morning. Do not keep me waiting._

_-Sylvanas Windrunner_

Jaina analyzes the letter with academic distance, a welcome respite from the rage that she normally feels in the proximity of anything Sylvanas-related. Perhaps Valeera Sanguinar was right after all: the Warchief speaks in demands too, and is obviously used to getting her way.

The woman who wrote this does not match Vereesa's description of her elder sister, though her memories may be faulted after so many years and traumas. Her version of Sylvanas was agreeable, if not entirely lovable, in spite of her vanity. She was a righteous hero, a brilliant tactician, and a kind sister.

She folds the paper in half sourly, steeling herself for the morning's performance.

When the time comes, she and Taelia portal directly into Orgrimmar's throne room. She takes in the weapon-lined walls, mostly elven, some orcish, and the Warchief lazing on her throne. On her right side stands Nathanos and on her left a Dark Ranger she does not recognize by name. The room smells of rich, burning oak that pours from the braziers scattered throughout.

"Color me shocked to hear from you again so soon," Sylvanas grins. "Have you come to sing my praises? The Horde stands united in this peace. What of the Alliance?"

Jaina doesn't respond. _So she knows then._

She is committed to her glacial demeanor: she will not touch Sylvanas unbidden, will not raise her voice. She will respect her emotions without letting them control her. It is too late now for anything but moving forward.

From the base of the throne, she tosses a gold coin to Sylvanas, looking far more confident than she feels. She catches it with dexterous ease.

"Flip it. Heads, we live in Boralus the first six months. Tails, we live in Orgrimmar. We'll swap halfway through the year either way."

As she stares her down, Jaina thinks about Sylvanas touching her pendant, and what she told her about honesty. She thinks Sylvanas might not trust the weight of the coin, might replace it with one of her own, assuming she agrees to this informal method at all. This insipid coin toss carries the outcome of a massive portion of their future.

Sylvanas holds the coin between two sharp nails. She simply says, "I concur."

She flicks the gold piece off of her thumb, watching as it spins through the air. The coin lands with a definitive clink on her gauntlet. The Banshee smiles, eyes glowing, and says, "Tails."

Jaina is prepared. She controls her magic, quelling the arcane spike that tries to burst from her body. The other Archmages always seem to have far better passive control over their magical energies, but she's never acquired that talent without cognizant effort.

She doesn't bother to confirm that Sylvanas is telling the truth, just as Sylvanas didn't challenge the balance of her coin. Though she has no desire to live in Orgrimmar for any period of time, the coin toss was fair, and she'd prepared for either outcome. Her list of demands sits easily in the front of her mind, and her stomach's twist of discomfort at living in the Horde's capital is easily ignored.

She stares at Sylvanas's mocking face with her chin tilted forward. When her red eyes bore into her, Jaina feels like a canary in a coal mine, bound to asphyxiate long before the miners, a necessary sacrifice for the sake of progress, but she smoothly says, "Then show me to my quarters."

Sylvanas rises from her throne and stands perfectly still for a long moment, as if appraising her betrothed's newfound confidence. Prior to today, Jaina had either removed herself from uncomfortable situations, or forced Sylvanas away from her to recover, but she'd never asked to go deeper into the viper's nest.

Sylvanas tosses the coin nonchalantly to the dark-haired Ranger and says, "Follow me. As promised, I've carved out space for you in the Warchief's suite. I suspect you'll find the orcish architecture brutalist, but the floorplan isn't appalling."

She begins her long stride to the exit without waiting for any acknowledgement from Jaina. Behind them, Taelia, Nathanos, and the Ranger fall uncomfortably in line. None of them have spoken.

"The bedroom has an adjoining bath and study, and a sitting room for hosting guests. Two fireplaces-"

"Wait," says Jaina.

Sylvanas' ears flatten, and she half-turns to face her in agitated silence. Jaina's heartbeat pounds in her ears, but her face is still, as icy calm as it was on their first meeting in Dalaran. She has none of Valeera's simpering heat but all of her power.

"You will escort me properly. I am the Lord Admiral of the Kul Tiran Fleet and the Warchief's betrothed; I will not walk behind you as a lesser dignitary. Give me your arm."

The Dark Ranger's eyes grow almost as wide as Taelia's. A long-dead vein on the side of Nathanos' forehead bulges.

Jaina stands tall, her head tilted to one side as if daring Sylvanas to deny her, but she hears nothing but an annoyed huff. Sylvanas approaches her, looming a mite too close for propriety, but Jaina leans into the challenge. The Warchief's face looks fuller, less gaunt and frayed. No doubt she rides the high of the Horde's victory in unanimously signing the peace treaty.

Sylvanas speaks lowly, her face turned away from the others in the room. "That wasn't a very polite way to ask, Jaina."

The pressure builds inside her, heat and fury followed by the cold, even voice in the back of her mind that says _don't take the bait._ She releases her anger a different way.

"It was impolite not to offer, Sylvanas."

She feels the whirling sense of vertigo at their closeness, fraught with anticipation of what she must do next, and the dread that the Warchief will call her on her bluff. She rises on her toes, straightening her back, lips just beneath Sylvanas' left ear.

As close as a kiss, she whispers, "We need to spread the right rumors. How dreadful if your own people think you can't treat your woman right."

Sylvanas stiffens, the creak of her armor an embarrassing tell. She says nothing, but turns gracefully and extends the crook of her right elbow for her to accept. It takes a tremendous force of will for Jaina not to laugh, not to lord her obvious victory over the losing party.

Instead she slips in her hand, fingers brushing beneath the eagle's feathers affixed to the Warchief's spaulders. They delicately graze against her knuckles; she makes a show of watching the vanes splay out on her white glove.

This close to Sylvanas, she can feel the bizarre emptiness of her Banshee body, the stillness that comes from a creature with no heartbeat or breath. It feels like the atmospheric vacuum and morbid green skies before the catastrophic power of a tornado tears across the landscape. The pressure reminds her of the combined weight of her anchor pendant and Sylvanas' finger on her sternum.

Jaina speaks loudly enough for the others to hear, "Now what were you saying?"

She does not interrupt again as Sylvanas describes their living quarters. They tour Grommash Hold together, arm-in-arm, while their retinue follows in a loaded silence. Taelia looks distinctly uncomfortable, though the warrior refused to be replaced by another guard when Jaina offered her the chance. Her honey-brown eyes furtively glance around each new room they enter, as if looking for someone.

As they move through the orange hallways, Jaina notes how diverse the population of Orgrimmar is. There are as many Forsaken as orcs and trolls, all of whom eye her with varying degrees of suspicion. Without the Undercity, it appears that the Hordish refugees have been welcomed into their crowded capital.

Several of them bow to her and Sylvanas-- they graciously nod their heads in return-- and as they round a corner to a spiral staircase, one pudgy, well-dressed undead man says, "Hail, Dark Ladies."

Sylvanas stops walking, forcing Jaina to do the same by her side.

In an instant, Jaina's fear spikes. She thinks that the man is about to lose his second life, that a claw will lash forward and rip out his throat, congealed blood spattering on the tile floors. She can't have that.

Jaina rests her other hand on Sylvanas' forearm and asks, "Is that what I shall be called here?"

Sylvanas blinks-- it is the first time Jaina's seen her do that-- as if remembering where she is. Her high double-voice simply says, "No."

She addresses the man in Gutterspeak, "Ver agoldan dovis Vandar ti barad Valesh, gol ko firalaigil hi ne. Dovis bor lon Dana Larril."

Jaina knows a smattering of words in Gutterspeak, but lacks the fluency that Derek acquired after being raised. She catches "Vandar", Warchief, and "Dana Larril", Dark Lady. The rest of the sentence remains a mystery.

Her brother described his knowledge of the language as recalling a long-forgotten memory, something that simply emerged in his consciousness after death and his resurrection. She finds the language mournful, stilted, as if the speaker is choking when they use it, or perhaps that is just how it sounds in Sylvanas' mouth.

It would be a fascinating subject to study if not for the disgusting circumstances of its creation.

She quells the anger she feels with herself. She is on the arm of the woman who leads the Horde, the one directly responsible for raising Derek into a Forsaken. She lowers her eyes, knowing she will have to control herself in the future. This marriage will not work if she grows frustrated every time she meets one of the undead in Orgrimmar.

The man bows deeply again, bent at a right angle from his hips, his hand placed on his three-piece suit over his heart. He speaks in Common, "My apologies, Dark Lady. I welcome you to Grommash Hold, Warqueen. My name is Abnar Shelley. I am the Dark Lady's butler. If you need anything from me, please do not hesitate to ask. I manage the estate and all domestic requests."

_Warqueen._

"It is good to meet you, Mr. Shelley," says Jaina with a polite smile. 

Sylvanas nods to him, seemingly satisfied with his correction, and guides Jaina up the stairs.

They walk in loaded silence; Sylvanas does not clarify the new moniker, and Jaina does not dare indulge her curiosity-- _Warqueen. Always war with the Horde_.

Instead she nonchalantly says, "In Boralus, after the wedding, you will be called the First Lady of the Fleet, or the Lady Admiral by our more seasoned sailors. The title went out of fashion several decades ago but some habits are hard to break."

Sylvanas hums, seemingly disinterested. "First Lady of the Fleet. What a mouthful."

Jaina ignores the jab. Her mother never liked the title either.

As they approach the thick double doors at the top of the stairs, Nathanos brushes past Sylvanas' left side to open them. It is, as far as she can recall, the first polite thing Jaina has ever seen him do.

His bizarre, abrupt courtesy takes her aback for a moment, but she says in as sincere a tone as she can muster, "Thank you, Nathanos." 

His red eyes narrow, as if he did not expect gratitude, but he clears his throat and says, "You're welcome. I will leave you to your discussion in Marrah's capable hands." He bows his head and a distinct look of annoyance crosses Sylvanas' features as they walk through the open doors into the sitting room.

The space is larger than Jaina anticipated, warmed by a fireplace in the center of the far wall. There are two grey sofas with a variety of patterned pillows, and two large black reading chairs that surround a low, square table, each with a small side table beside them. A thick white rug lines the floor, extending its coverage to nearly the entire room.

Art hangs on the walls, most of it abstract, pastoral scenes of old Quel'Thalas. Several small bookshelves line an easterly window nook, curtained and private. There is a brass beverage cart full of liquors and glasses in one corner, and a globe of Azeroth in the other.

It is both more comfortable and more eclectic than Jaina expected, but she does not betray her surprise. Some part of her wonders if it is insulting that she assumed the Forsaken wouldn't design for light or comfort. She supposes that elven habits are also hard to break.

"Marrah, keep our guest company," says Sylvanas as she nods at Taelia. "We will continue the tour alone."

The Dark Ranger sits on one of the sofas without hesitation, patting the cushion beside her as her serious face peels into a predatory smile. The abrupt change in her demeanor gives Jaina whiplash: it's as if the undead elf has been waiting all morning to corner Taelia. She's clearly, _comically,_ excited about it.

Jaina, arm still linked in Sylvanas', nods for Taelia to sit. With a horrified expression, she obeys, adjusting her massive warhammer on her back. The last thing she hears before rounding the corner into the bedroom is a lascivious voice saying, "So _you're_ the famous Taelia."

Moving into the bedroom, Sylvanas surveys her space with a detached, haughty expression. She drops Jaina's arm the second they are alone and closes the door with an air of finality.

There is a four-poster bed in varying shades of Forsaken purple, a vanity, and a second, unlit fireplace. Jaina sees three closed doors to other rooms: the bathroom, the study, the closet. Her view is quickly blocked by Sylvanas, whose lips curl into a snarl.

Her voice grows lethal, "Do you think me a trained beast? That I will simply jump each time you bark an order? Learn your _place_."

Jaina peels her eyes away from the furniture, favoring a disdainful look at Sylvanas instead. It is the sort of condescending glance that says, _you are not a threat._ The same implication _rankles_ Jaina when she is on the receiving end of it.

She still feels a sense of comfortable rage at Sylvanas' conceit, at the constant threat of her feline physicality. But as they lock eyes there is a jarring moment, far worse than the Warchief's threatening body language or the tension brewing between them, when Jaina can see Sylvanas' face clearly in the sunlight.

Little grey scars, souvenirs from her true life, mark her otherwise smooth skin. Jaina's blue eyes take in the face looking down at her as her mind processes a raw, disjointed statement: _Sylvanas has freckles._

Her heart races as she gathers her thoughts, suddenly at a loss as to how she should respond. The stakes are raised-- they are alone, dangerously alone-- and she fears a misstep after making it this far with her feigned confidence.

But stopping now is tantamount to tripping at the finish line, and Jaina wants to finally _win_. She is not lesser. She knows what she has to do.

Jaina leans into her, eyes hooded, an echo of Sylvanas' menacing sensuality on the roof of Proudmoore Keep, and says, "Make me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sooooo dang long but I can't stop, won't stop. Comment and I will reveal everyone's gay chicken scores.


	10. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go, makin' up lore again. Also, this chapter's a whole-ass rollercoaster.

Hundreds of responses cycle through Sylvanas' mind, not the least of which is the volcanic urge to lash out, hand around Jaina's throat, her eyes as black as pitch. She feels rage-- an uncharacteristic and unwelcome _heat_ \-- that settles deep in the pit of her stomach, a sensation that overwhelms her with its unfamiliarity.

She barely feels bloodlust on the battlefield, but she can feel it here.

Jaina stares up at her: unafraid, too close, her magic wrapped like a shawl around her. It oozes out of every pore, the scent of hyacinth and saltwater a shock to Sylvanas' mind, as distracting as the anchor pendant reflecting the window's morning light.

She got what she wanted: they would begin in Orgrimmar, paving a new path to peace on Sylvanas' turf. The coin toss was a gamble, a risk she simply couldn't refuse, both for the sheer audacity of it and the fact that she would not be outplayed by Jaina Proudmoore again. She relished her victory, only slightly cowed by Jaina's lack of reaction to it.

And still she feels miserable, a molten rock in her gut.

_"How dreadful if your own people think you can't treat your woman right."_

She hasn't escorted a woman, a partner, since Silvermoon. She hasn't been touched like that, upholding the etiquette of high society, since before she died; no one would dare ask for her arm. Not since Arthas ruined her.

The violence in her recedes, replaced by a sorrow that melts onto her face. She has no reason to hide it now. They are alone, and Sylvanas feels-- in spite of her Forsaken body-- suddenly drained. Beneath her armor, the sapphire necklace rests heavy atop Frostmourne's massive, jagged scar.

She wouldn't make anyone do anything, not even the insufferable Jaina Proudmoore.

The tone in the room shifts like a bone being reset. She exhales a breath she didn't need to take, her voice low and brittle, a dead thing.

"I promise that you do not want me to do that."

Her eyes pour over Jaina, waiting for a response, a reaction. She can feel the other woman's breath ghosting across her face, intentionally controlled and even. She is one of few people who maintain eye contact with Sylvanas without growing uncomfortable, or perhaps she simply manages it better.

_Ever the martyr._

The Lord Admiral breathes steadily and gives her nothing else, so she turns away, facing the unlit fireplace. Sylvanas goes to work, kneeling to rearrange logs and kindling, delicately striking a match. She watches as the flames catch and grow into a steady burn.

They would sit around perfectly crafted fires, Sylvanas and her Rangers, nestled in the forests of Quel'Thalas. Loralen would sing for them with Anya smiling beside her, seasoning whatever dish they'd made for dinner. Velonara and Areiel and Lyana would gamble over cards, wagering acorns and leaves; inevitably they would all cheat, and play-argue until Sylvanas herself was called in to mediate.

Marrah and Cyndia always sat together, one in front of the other, wrapped in each others arms, comfortable despite the hard ground, as they cuddled and told stories to pass the time. Even death didn't change that for them.

But Sylvanas is ruined, fossilized. The fire burns and she thinks of Teldrassil.

She'd eaten again that morning after receiving Jaina's note, two scrawny jackrabbits, in an attempt to quell her more aggressive tendencies. She needed to be able to focus and plan, both of which she was historically poor at attempting with Jaina. Even after devouring their blood and energy, she feels she is at a deficit for surviving so long without sustenance.

Their spirits kicked and jumped inside her, excitable and lively. The memories they trigger are distracting, but at least now she had only a small desire to murder the headstrong woman in front of her. 

She rises to her feet quickly, lips pursed, and returns the matchbox to the marble hearth. She can't remember the last time she used the bedroom fireplace, but she would hear no complaints about the draftiness of the room.

"Take a seat," she gestures to the bed.

Jaina says nothing, but complies, surprisingly submissive after all of her demands. No doubt she'd read something on Sylvanas' face that dissuaded her from escalating again. It wasn't out fear or sympathy, that much Sylvanas knew.

The sudden obedience must be part of her plan: Jaina would lull her into a false sense of security before pulling the rug out from under her again with her orders and awful closeness. Jaina mocks her with her warmth, the steady heat of the living.

Her posture is impeccable as she sits on the edge of the bed, white braid over one shoulder, hands clasped in her lap. She has the aura of someone vaguely ill, as if she has a chronic problem getting proper nutrition and sleep. The slope of her shoulders and tightness of her lips speaks of a woman who has long borne the weight of great stress.

But she appraises the Warchief before her, haughty as ever.

After a pause, she speaks in a clipped monotone, "I wish to marry on my ship. We can anchor in Orgrimmar Harbor and conduct a private ceremony at sunset, honoring both Kul Tiran and Thalassian traditions, or whichever rites suit you now.

"I will wear a white gown, and the Archmage's Diadem. I ask only that you do not wear armor."

Sylvanas nods, unsmiling. She wants to put as little thought as possible into the wedding and would prefer a private setting, as she would for most events. She never enjoyed the diplomatic schmoozing and small talk that followed her in Quel'Thalas. She supposes the Warchief's wedding would never truly be private with all the figureheads' mandatory attendance, but at least it isn't going to be a wholly public affair.

And, as far as her current marriage traditions are concerned, most of her Forsaken were once human. They tend to favor traditionalism: white dresses, ribbon binding, three-tiered cakes if they could afford it. While she found the few ceremonies of theirs she attended brief and gaudy, she did admit they were significantly more fun than most formal elven events.

The concept of fun irks her, as if she could still wrap her head around the fact that others were laughing and enjoying themselves, but her heart couldn't manage to partake. Perhaps because it no longer beats. She has no illusions about enjoying her own wedding. At least the Lord Admiral suggested something fair.

_Her ship, my harbor._

"I think my time in white has passed," says Sylvanas.

Jaina's eyes scan the room as if she's memorizing the layout. The space feels much noisier with her inside it, breathing and moving and living.

"I was under the impression that the Ranger-General of Silvermoon traditionally wore the Swan Feather Cape when they were wed."

The words stir a grave discomfort in Sylvanas. Her mother wore that cape when she married her father. It is in Halduron Brightwing's care now.

"I am no longer the Ranger-General," she quietly says.

Jaina pulls her gaze away from the study. "And I am no longer an Archmage, but I am entitled to uphold the traditions of my former station, as are you." Her voice softens, "You were not dishonorably discharged."

The statement does not spark memories of the Scourge, or of her violent death and more violent raising. Instead she thinks of home.

In Windrunner Spire, portraits of her family line the walls. They vary in quality and subject, but one of Sylvanas' favorites was her parents' wedding painting. Her mother, with silver hair as smooth as Vereesa's and Aithlin's and Seldor's, sat in a high-backed, gilded chair. She wore a form-fitting gown of satin and tulle that left her strong shoulders bare. The Swan Feather Cape trailed elegantly behind her left side, and her husband stood at her right. She wore her hair in an intricate bun, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Gadanis Windrunner was a statesman. A tremendous Farstrider in his own right, but a diplomat first. He smiled widely, openly, a grin that clearly showed his laugh-lines, a rarity on an elf. The formal tunic was adorned with shining scrollwork, a vine motif worked across his chest and arms. His bright, golden blonde hair was half-up, knotted comfortably in the back of his head. Alleria and Lirath inherited his look, his sunshiney smile. All of his children shared his love of music.

Sylvanas was the only Windrunner that looked like a strange combination of her parents, not favoring either one. Her hair was neither silver nor gold, but a shade of blonde akin to butter. She took her mother's loyalty and practicality, and her father's knack for masking his own sorrows with laughter.

Now her ashen look resembles no one. She wonders what her sisters wore at their weddings.

Sylvanas snaps to attention, a minute movement for her, but a weakness nonetheless. Jaina is still sitting on her bed, watching her face with rapt interest, eyes hard.

_At least I see no trace of pity._

When their eyes meet again, Jaina says, "This room is not well warded. All of Grommash Hold needs work."

"Our barriers are more than adequate."

Jaina frowns, her dark circles deepening. "I know toddlers in Dalaran who could break these wards." 

Sylvanas rolls her eyes, turning to a button on the wall near the door. She drones, "By all means, fix it then. You can't have the First Lady of the Fleet in mortal peril."

"I will. It won't take long."

Sylvanas presses the button and speaks into it, "Abnar, have two coffees brought to my room. Cream and sugar too."

Abnar Shelley's voice filters through, a reedy arcane projection, "At once, mistress."

Jaina rises to inspect the communication button, curiosity clear on her face. She asks, "You drink coffee now?"

"I can, but I do not. It's for you and your woman. Fordragon."

There is a moment in which Sylvanas thinks Jaina is going to spit back her sarcastic words: _how considerate._ But the Lord Admiral turns to the button, fingers tracing the edge of it. She simply says, "Thank you."

Then, "This device is very clever. I've never seen one before."

Sylvanas crosses her arms, her feathers brushing against Jaina's elbow. "Goblin engineering and troll magic. Contrary to popular Alliance belief, not everything in Orgrimmar is primitive."

Without glancing up Jaina says, "Only your wards."

She walks behind Sylvanas and suddenly begins to undress in silence, unbuckling her blue pauldron and cape, swinging them over her head, and hanging them on an empty clothing rack beside the vanity. She unlatches her gauntlet, setting it beneath the mirror.

Sylvanas' eyes lock onto her, following the abrupt change in her movement. She walks like a woman late for a meeting, or a schoolmarm off to scold a child for throwing dirt across the play yard. Her boots clack with purpose across the marble floors: she has a job to do now.

The white corset beneath Jaina's cape has a thick, high collar that runs up the length of her neck, but her pale shoulders are otherwise bare. Her long braid rests behind her, out of the way. Despite looking exhausted and noticeably thinner without her armor, she cuts a fine figure.

Sylvanas' ears flatten. She curses the jackrabbits, and deflects.

"My, my, Lord Admiral. Save some for the honeymoon," she drawls.

Jaina's eyes narrow. She snipes, "Please. If I'm going to fix your abysmal wards, I'm going to do it comfortably. And I don't think we should have a honeymoon at all. It would be a waste of coin."

"You miser. Here I was hoping for a scenic Pandarian getaway."

There is a knock at the door, and Sylvanas opens it to see Abnar holding a tray of coffee, cream, and sugar cubes. Behind him, Marrah leans toward Taelia Fordragon, one finger tapping the head of her warhammer. The human woman, despite being significantly larger than Marrah, shrinks into the sofa.

Sylvanas asks, "How do you take it?"

Jaina folds her arms suspiciously, as if debating the danger in giving away her precious coffee secrets.

"Come along, Lord Admiral. You drink too much coffee for me to not know the answer to this question. How am I to play nice in public if I don't know your preferences?"

"Two sugars."

Sylvanas dutifully drops the sugars into Jaina's cup, stirring gently. She hands the drink to Jaina without a word.

"Taelia takes cream and one sugar."

Sylvanas squints at her, but prepares the bodyguard's coffee as well. She lifts the cup carefully from Abnar's tray, walking it over to Taelia. Abnar holds the door for her, as irksome as Nathanos-- who didn't even have the decency to control his bizarre door-holding habit with Proudmoore on her arm-- and she thinks, _Once a human, always a human. At least Jaina thought it normal._

She says, "This is yours."

Taelia accepts the coffee with mumbled gratitude, taking the opportunity to shift herself closer to the armrest, as far from Marrah as possible. The Dark Ranger closes the distance between them again.

"Are you enjoying yourselves out here?"

Marrah smiles, long brown hair pooling under her hood. "Yes, Dark Lady. We are having a wonderful time. Taelia was just telling me how badly she wants a tour of our sleeping quarters."

Sylvanas raises an eyebrow. She knows better than anyone that her Dark Rangers are gossipmongers, and Anya made the fatal mistake of telling them about their trip to Proudmoore Keep. They are her most trusted companions, and this marriage charade wouldn't fool them, so she's never bothered hiding the truth of it.

Anya and Taelia, however, seemed to be forging blithely ahead. While at first she focused on the risk of that unexpected infatuation, she now sees it as an opportunity. She could glean much from Anya's closeness with Jaina's bodyguard.

Behind this practical notion, another very small thought pulls at Sylvanas' mind: Anya has not been with anyone since Loralen was slain.

"Then be a good hostess and have her back by lunch." She turns back to Jaina, who watches them from the door frame, teacup pressed to her lips. "I assume your work will take some time?"

"Yes, several hours."

Marrah grins. "We are going to have," she punctuates each word with a nail tap on the warhammer, "such a good time."

With a touch of amusement in her double-voice, Sylvanas says, "Behave yourself."

"I'll try," says Marrah, looking very much like she will not try at all.

Taelia is dragged forcibly from the room, trying and failing to avoid sloshing her coffee. Abnar follows behind them, wiping the floor with a rag.

"Thank you, Mr. Shelley," says Jaina.

Abnar bows to each of them before making his exit, "Warchief. Warqueen."

The double doors click closed behind him, and they are left in silence, more alone than before. The warm coffee smell mingles into the scent of Jaina, enriching it.

Sylvanas steps past her, back into the bedroom, and opens the study door fully. The room is tiny, made smaller by the walls of bookshelves and one large window overlooking the Valley of Wisdom. The window frames a large desk full of tidy piles of paper, her reports and letters, and her writing supplies. There are three cushy chairs of varying comfort levels, and side tables for each, all lit from above by dangling goblin-crafted light strands.

There is an ornately-framed mirror near the desk, and two tapestries of forest scenes hanging on opposite walls.

Sylvanas is fairly certain that this room used to be the Warchief's private armory, but was empty by the time Vol'jin took power. She considered it a waste to not use the space effectively, and filled it with as many of her books from the Undercity as she could recover.

"You may work in here. There's a desk."

Sylvanas expects a scathing critique from the Archmage on how her books are organized or how the space is too small for her arcane pursuits. Jaina walks the room, a full circle, sipping coffee as she goes. She tilts her head to the side, reading the spines.

"Your mood is much improved today," Jaina says offhandedly. "What changed?"

_A doe and two jackrabbits._

"Nothing."

Sylvanas reaches for a book on the Bronze Dragonflight, one she's begun reading several times, and takes a seat in the most comfortable of the chairs.

On the days after she eats, she has to keep busy, or be tortured and tangled by her thoughts, the visions of her dead friends and family and self. Today in particular, she cannot afford that distraction. She opens her book and begin to read it studiously.

The cost of the laser-focus that accompanies her hunger is that it also leaves her beastly, violent, petty: the purest version of the monster Arthas created. She can survive months without draining life, reverting to her basest form in her starvation. She burns trees in her hunger.

"No, tell me. What happened? You're different today and we've been more productive in the last hour than we have in the last two weeks."

"So demanding lately," Sylvanas sneers. "And I beg to differ. We signed a peace treaty _and_ got engaged last week. What more could a girl want?"

"Are you always this impolite?"

"Are you always this nosy?"

Jaina blinks at her, eyebrows raised, taking a seat behind the desk. The morning light reflects off of her white hair like a halo. Or snow blindness.

"Yes," she says. "I am always this nosy. It comes with being a mage. Are you going to answer my question or not?"

"Then yes, I am always this impolite. It comes with being a _banshee_."

"Not _that_ question--"

In spite of herself, Sylvanas slams closed her book and turns in her armchair. Her lips peel back, revealing her fangs, and she shouts, "I ate! Is that what you want to know? I was hungry and now I'm not. I ate animals. Drank their blood. Their life."

Jaina sits bolt upright, regal and detached, refined in all the ways that have long left Sylvanas. She dips a quill into the inkwell at her right, and begins to draw runic shapes onto the paper. She flatly says, "Thank you."

Sylvanas' lips slowly press back together, twisting into a grimace. She shouldn't have said anything. The virulence and frustration grow inside her, the loathing of vulnerability. She turns forward again, and opens her book.

They sit in silence but for the constant scratching of Jaina's quill, and the occasional turned page from Sylvanas. She struggles to focus, and can still hear her breathing.

"How often do you need to eat?"

Sylvanas' shoulders tense. "I thought you were working on my 'abysmal wards.' Why don't you focus on that instead of asking so many inane questions?"

Jaina does not look up. She says, "They're not inane, and I can do both."

"I fail to see how my eating habits are germane to your wards--"

This time Jaina stops writing. Angry blue eyes pierce the side of Sylvanas' head. She says, "If I don't know you, I won't trust you, and _some_ measure of trust will be necessary for this to work. I told you I was sick of playing games and I meant it."

"You seemed to enjoy playing games earlier this morning. Or have you already forgotten your sudden need to cling to my arm?"

The room fills with Jaina's floral magic, the sweetness of the fig drifts around her. Sylvanas wonders if she will ever be rid of the smell.

"If you need to eat for your sanity and _my_ protection, that is absolutely germane to my future," she spits.

Her eyes begin to glow, a faint, ghostly grey shade. Her voice lowers, the crackling threat of her magic weaves between them, "So tell me, Sylvanas, how often do you need to eat?"

_Hypocrite._

Sylvanas rages. She breaks.

She closes the gap between them in three long strides, her movements a blur, forcing herself behind Jaina and half-lifting her out of her chair, pressed to her back.

One hand threads under her arm and grabs her cheeks, the other clutches her right hip. She pulls her up, turning her to stare into the mirror, teeth bared beside her right ear, inches from the pounding pulse in her neck.

Jaina's breath hitches and she drops her spell. She is limp in her arms, darkened eyes darting between the mirror and the hand on her waist, her lips forced into a mockery of a kiss. Her back is warm like the sun against her chest.

"Look at yourself," Sylvanas hisses. "You're starving to death. Stop demanding of the dead, and feed the living _first_."

She sees her own reflection-- feral, furious, unhinged-- a hideous sight; and then she sees Jaina, quivering, eyes wide. It takes her a moment to register the look as intense, palpable fear.

She didn't even try to stop her. She froze in place, petrified.

They stare at each other in the mirror as Sylvanas holds her up, two figures locked in stasis. She has never seen Jaina look afraid. She takes gasping breaths, terrified, like she might weep.

Sylvanas releases her immediately, retreating to the door. Jaina sinks into the chair, still shaking, hands balled against her heart.

Silence hangs in the air, punctuated by Jaina's heavy breathing. She blinks hard, looking at anything but Sylvanas.

The Banshee hunches, ashamed. She didn't hurt her physically, but somehow it feels worse that she scared her. She moved so quickly, with such bitter violence. She touched Jaina against her will. Again.

"I shouldn't have-- I'm sorry. That wasn't... I grabbed you. I'm sorry."

She whirls away, suddenly claustrophobic in her armor. She yanks off her hood, stalking to the sitting room with a scowl. She stares out of the window, arms crossed, self-hatred welling inside of her. She takes her forehead into her hand.

_Fucking monstrous._

Every time she thought she could do better, be more prepared, she reverted to something beastly. She jeopardized the peace because she couldn't control her temper. She could have hurt Jaina Proudmoore just for asking a question.

She sits alone for nearly an hour, brooding. At one point, the other room is so still that she wonders if Jaina made a portal to go home, to escape her. She thinks it might be best if she did.

A click sounds through the open doors, and a shuffling of papers. Sylvanas hears footsteps from the study to the bedroom, moving at a slow pace.

Jaina appears in the doorframe, notes in hand. Her face is calm and professional. The fear is gone and she speaks clearly, "Well, I'm done with the paperwork. I'm ready to start modifying the wards now."

She speaks like nothing happened. The feigned normalcy of her words makes Sylvanas' skin crawl, as if she never forced herself upon her. As if she never frightened her nearly to tears.

"Jaina--"

"You've already apologized. I've grabbed you before too. We're even," her voice wavers, "and I don't want to talk about it."

_A lesser crime. You did not terrorize me,_ Sylvanas thinks, but she says nothing.

Tension stretches between them, Sylvanas' guilt drowning her with more apologies she feels she should make. She knows she crossed some unknown line, far past the biting vitriol and insulting implications, into territory that should never have been tread upon. This was not a weapon to use against the woman she was marrying, war wounds be damned.

She doesn't understand why Jaina isn't lording it over her. She doesn't understand why she craves her absolution.

While she feels a sense of distinct, cleansing relief, she also recognizes the mounting worry that she was not punished enough for her transgressions. The simmering blame bubbles beneath the surface of her mind, as warm as Jaina's body held against her own.

She clears her throat, walking as slowly and non-threateningly toward Jaina as she can. The Lord Admiral does not flinch.

"I'm sorry," Sylvanas repeats.

She does not deserve forgiveness.

She stands an arm's-length away, inflexible and lifeless, shame still drenching her features. Jaina's gaze roams over her face, lips parted as if she is searching for some sign of deception, but she lingers on her hair. It occurs to Sylvanas that she's never seen her without a hood, and she grows suddenly self-conscious about her ashy, dead hair.

_Now is not the time for useless vanities. She'll have to get used to it eventually. All of it._

Jaina nods, and inhales deeply. She says, "I thought you might want to have someone look over my notes before I get started. So you can confirm I'm not trying to... collapse Grommash Hold or something."

"I somehow doubt you'll do that while you're still inside."

"Hard to say." Jaina walks past the globe, "With your permission, I'm going to make the new ward so that I can portal directly here without contacting one of your mages. You will be able to do the same to Boralus after I set up the gate."

Sylvanas nods.

Jaina puts her palm against the wall, and a wave of magic pulses out of her, spiraling and connecting with a shimmering web-like network normally invisible to Sylvanas' eyes. When she raises it again there is a faint, snowflake-shaped pattern on the wall

"Once I link the other end in Proudmoore Keep, just place your hand here and you'll end up in the same hallway as last time. The portal will close after you pass through, or if you touch the mark again."

"I've never seen a permanent customizable portal before."

Jaina says, "The Abnar Button inspired it."

Sylvanas cannot help herself. "The _Abnar_ Button?" she repeats incredulously.

"Well, what do you call it?" Jaina continues moving around the room, fingertips tracing runes on the walls, occasionally glancing down at her notes. The room pulses with light and energy as the wards alter.

Sylvanas shakes her head, "I don't call it anything. It's just a communication button I press for Abnar."

"Then the Abnar Button is aptly named. Butler Button is too hard to say."

Sylvanas laughs lightly, "I didn't realize it needed a name." Hovering near the globe, she inspects the mark on the wall. "Can others pass through this the same way?"

"Not unless I authorize them. I can grant permissions for your Rangers. I thought Taelia should have the ability to follow me too."

Sylvanas hums in agreement. The spell Jaina weaves before her eyes is incredibly intricate, impressive on multiple levels.

While Jaina treats it as a matter of rote, Sylvanas sees her arcane power for what it truly is: innovative, overpowering, and unstoppable.

She isn't certain that even the First Arcanist could overwrite someone else's wards with such ease. Ward-breaking is one thing, like digging a knife into a tapestry, but re-writing spells from another mage requires artistry, a knowledge and appreciation for every single thread, and a vision for the final product.

Jaina's work is extraordinary, even Sylvanas knows that much.

Sylvanas watches as Jaina passes through the door into her bedroom, noting that the scent of her magic lingers even after she is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAY CHICKEN SCORES  
> Valeera: over 9000  
> Marrah: 8999  
> Jaina: 420  
> Sylvanas: 1  
> Taelia: -69


	11. Taelia, Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different. We all deserve a little undead found family, as a treat.

"Gods, it smells incredible in here," Marrah says, peeking through the double doors into the Warchief's living room.

Cyndia hums in agreement, taking a deep breath as she enters. Her eyebrows raise in surprise and appreciation. The other Rangers follow suit.

Taelia plows along behind them, unable to smell anything but the light smoke of the fireplace, perhaps because she is so distracted by her new outfit.

She trudged behind Marrah and Cyndia through several floors of Grommash Hold, self-conscious and uncomfortable, trying hard to simultaneously cover her midriff with a black cloak and to lift her oversized boots enough to not catch on the rugs.

At first she wished Anya would appear from the shadows to save her from the ministrations of her sisters, but now she thanks the Tidemother that she's not here to see her like this.

Sylvanas and Jaina are in the bedroom still, and Cyndia knocks on the open door, saying, "Dark Lady, Abnar wanted me to tell you that lunch is ready for our new friends."

Cyndia is short and pretty and blonde-- nearly all of the Rangers are short and pretty and blonde, except for Marrah, who is short and pretty and brunette-- but she is easily distinguishable from her peers because of a long, thin scar that runs from the center of her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and across her left cheek.

Taelia can also mark her because she sometimes holds hands with Marrah. They kissed once in greeting, and Taelia blushed.

The others-- Alina? Kalira? Maybe Clea?-- Taelia has limited luck telling them apart. They moved so fast around her, a shock of red eyes and blonde hair, and giggled incessantly as they dug through their closets. At first they surrounded her in their dormitory, not touching her, but Taelia flinched under their intent, probing eyes. She was not at all used to this sort of attention from anyone, much less a group of attractive, curious women.

"Look at these shoulders!" one of the cried. Maybe Kalira?

"I'm too distracted by her little ears," said Alina. At least, she thought it was Alina. "You are a magnificent specimen, Taelia. We don't see many living humans anymore."

"Not up close anyway," said Clea. She turned to the other undead elves. "Anya really undersold her."

"Of course she did."

"Can you blame her?"

"I wouldn't want to share either."

"So selfish."

"Where is she anyway?"

"Outside rounds."

"It'll be a while."

"Perfect," Marrah chimed in, interrupting the cacophony of voices floating around Taelia's head.

She turned to the hunching human with a soft expression. "Taelia, we're so happy to have you in Orgrimmar. We want you to feel at home, _especially_ with us. Does that sound nice?"

Taelia gulped. "Yes."

"Wonderful," Marrah clapped her hands together. "We're going to play dress up now."

_Oh gods,_ she thought.

"All right," she said. Her voice was squeakier than she intended.

Then, all at once, the Rangers smiled, and the room erupted into a flurry of movement. One of them snatched away her coffee cup in a flash.

Kalira unlatched her warhammer, repeatedly lifting it up and down, as if testing the weight. "Belore, this is heavy! You're so strong!"

Alina slapped down a black cloak on her head, trying and failing to gently pull Taelia's ears through the holes. "They're so small," she cooed with a pout.

"I've got this stuff that might fit," Clea said. In the time it took Taelia to process what was happening, Clea had stripped her to her undergarments and replaced every piece of armor on her body. "Bit small, but she can definitely pull it off."

Cyndia whispered to her partner conspiratorially, and Marrah disappeared from the sleeping quarters, returning moments later with a pair of large black leather boots.

Taelia slipped into them easily when Cyndia sat her on the edge of a bed and lifted her feet.

Fully dressed again, Taelia stood in awkward silence, her mouth a flat line. The armor absolutely did not fit her muscular human proportions, and she felt particularly uncovered in her breasts, arms, and midriff.

All the Rangers smiled at her.

" _Perfect_ ," said Marrah again. "Now you're ready for a tour."

And so they toured the Hold again. Taelia in the center of their retinue, clothing constantly being adjusted by one of the elves. They gave her a training bow at the practice range, pleased that she could shoot a target at all, then they demonstrated their own prodigious abilities for nearly an hour, a welcome respite. When they focused on their spinning targets that Taelia couldn't dream of hitting, they had less time to prod at her, asking questions about her upbringing and life and interests.

Cyndia asked her about the visit to Proudmoore Keep, which Taelia glossed over to the best of her ability. She did say that Anya was very personable and kinder to her than she expected, and she was grateful to see her again in Dalaran. Five sets of long ears perked up at once as she spoke.

Now she still wears the armor of a Dark Ranger as she stands in the Warchief's quarters, soon-to-be Jaina's quarters, her own clothes long ago discarded on the floor of the Rangers' dormitory. The leathers are tight and revealing, and the cloak is far too small to cover anything. She has no concept of how they fight so well half-naked.

She gulps; Jaina would not be pleased. Or maybe she would laugh? Taelia had gone into today prepared for a fight or another conversation fraught with tension, but she got... something else entirely, though equally unnerving.

"Very good," says Sylvanas. She stands in the middle of her bedroom, arms crossed, hood lowered. As soon as Taelia enters, she raises an eyebrow at her Rangers, but doesn't question the new clothes. One corner of her mouth quirks up.

The Lord Admiral, shoulders bare, crouches in a corner near the closet, one hand full of papers and the other placed flat against a wall. She says, "I'm about done in here. I'll have to reinforce the rest of the Hold later."

As she turns, her eyes go wide at Taelia. They travel the length of her body, stopping momentarily on her prominent decolletage, before she barks a single laugh.

"What... happened, Taelia?"

She shifts from side to side, the unfamiliar weight of the boots scuffling on the floor. She mutters, "They wanted... to play dress up."

Jaina takes in the faces around her, all in various states of glee. "They've obviously succeeded," she says. "Quite a transformation. You'll have to repay the favor when next they visit Kul Tiras." 

Clea whispers excitedly to Kalira, who taps at the arm of Cyndia. Taelia can't catch what they're saying, but she does feel the thread of anticipation that passes from one Ranger to the next. She'd always thought them impassive and cold, barring Anya, but the women before her bounce and play like schoolgirls.

In spite of her predicament, she smiles too. "I will. We'll see how they fare in Kul Tiran sage."

Sylvanas huffs, a noise akin to a laugh, and Jaina smirks.

Sudden relief washes over Taelia: she sees a marked change from Jaina's earlier intensity and Sylvanas' bared teeth. She'd been so afraid to leave them alone together, but dared not undermine the Lord Admiral, especially in Orgimmar.

_Perhaps they were able to work things out._

They look extremely regal and endlessly intimidating side-by-side, even without Sylvanas' hood and Jaina's armor. 

Sylvanas lowers her voice, murmuring to Jaina, "I suppose it's a good sign. They haven't pulled this little stunt since Nathanos first joined the Rangers."

Jaina replies, "No doubt she looks better in the uniform than your Champion."

With an arched eyebrow, Sylvanas peruses her. Her invasiveness is menacing but Taelia tries her best to hold her gaze the way Jaina does. The Lord Admiral does not flinch, and neither shall her bodyguard, even if the Warchief is staring directly at her cleavage.

"Yes," Sylvanas drawls. "On that subject we certainly agree."

Sylvanas peels her eyes away, and retrieves Jaina's cloak, pauldron, and gauntlet from a vanity. She holds them out to her, turning away as Jaina redresses.

_How did we both end up undressing today?_

Sylvanas offers her arm to Jaina, who does not hesitate to take it.

She leads the group down the stairs to a private dining chamber that Taelia hadn't visited earlier on her tour. Though, to her great embarrassment and moderate fear, she'd been paraded through some sort of mess hall where everything from orcs to trolls to tauren gaped at her with varying levels of aggression. The Rangers' presence kept them at bay, Marrah at the lead, blithely talking about the cafeteria food, and they escaped peacefully.

The heavy table in the center of the room is large enough to host a feast, but only four place settings are made toward the northern end. Four bowls of chicken soup steam beside glasses of water, side plates of rolls and butter nearby. It is a simple meal, but Taelia's mouth waters at the smell.

In the corner nearest the kitchen hallway the Forsaken man, Abnar Shelley, stands at attention. He bows and says, "Warchief, Warqueen. I hope this lunch is to your satisfaction. I've had the chefs made enough for everyone, should your Rangers prefer to eat today, Dark Lady."

Sylvanas says, "Thank you, Abnar." And, as if on cue, the Dark Rangers thank him too, a repetitive, sing-song echo. He graciously nods.

Sylvanas pulls back a chair to the right of the head of the table with a bowl in front of it, obviously Jaina's seat. Sylvanas sits at the head, no food or drink before her.

Taelia springs forward to sit next to Jaina, desperately hoping the Rangers don't stop her. She sighs in relief when she makes it to the chair.

Cyndia and Marrah take a seat in front of bowls across the table from the humans, trailed by the remaining three Rangers. Of them, only Kalira asks for a bowl of soup too, "For the novelty of it."

Taelia watches in horror as the three Rangers season their soups with hot sauce, salt, and pepper. The quantities they use would render the food completely inedible to her, but they eat with happy smiles.

Suddenly, a door opens. Anya and Nathanos walk briskly in, each of them lightly dusted with snow. The chill of the outside air permeates the room, particularly cold on Taelia's bare midriff, but she feels her face grow warm.

Anya unhooks her cloak, platinum blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and hangs it on a rack. Unlike the other Rangers, she has perfectly high cheekbones and soft pink lips, and features that make her look almost gentle. She is the most beautiful, and the easiest for Taelia to distinguish.

Their eyes lock, Anya's hand still outstretched to the cloak rack, and she tilts her head, obviously surprised. Taelia offers her a small smile, suddenly self-conscious that Sylvanas and all of her Dark Rangers are watching her intently.

Marrah reaches across the table, tapping her fingernail on the wood as she says, "Show her, Taelia. We had so much fun picking your new outfit." 

Against her better judgement, Taelia rises from her chair. She sheepishly turns once in a circle, goosebumps prickling her skin from more than just the cold.

Anya's eyes widen, darting around Taelia's body and the room, as if she can't decide if staring or not staring is ruder. Finally, she settles on, "You're... cold. I need to get your cloak. It's warmer."

"I'll get it," says Alina. She rises and leaves before Anya can protest.

Sylvanas gestures to the chair beside Taelia, saying, "Take a seat, Anya. No doubt you want your lunch."

Abnar immediately places a bowl of soup down for her and moves a bottle of hot sauce within reach too.

After hanging his own cloak, Nathanos' eyes lower to Taelia's feet, narrowing to suspicious slits.

He frowns and asks, "Are those my boots?"

And the Dark Rangers giggle.

* * *

Sylvanas answers him, "Undoubtedly, human-sized footwear is hard to come by in Orgrimmar. Needs must."

“Hmm,” he frowns deeply, a petulant child whose toy has been stolen. The silliness of it jars Jaina to her core.

She remembers how Bolvar and Varian mourned when Nathanos Marris fell to the Scourge, how they raged when they learned of his unliving.

And now Nathanos Blightcaller stands, the only male Ranger in the dining room, being poked and pestered by a cadre of women who stole his boots. It is as if this is his role now, his rightful place: the grumpy, grim loner who seems to never actually be alone.

She supposes he's grown used to this bizarre domesticity after all this time, though she cannot reconcile his behavior. He is Sylvanas' proxy, her eyes and ears on the battlefield. He is her greatest, most brutal weapon, yet he harrumphs like an old man, like Genn, and takes a seat beside Anya without further complaint.

_How many Alliance champions has he slain? How many innocent night elves?_

Jaina turns back to her meal, the smile on her face fading away. She didn't realize she was so entertained with their exchange.

_How many Horde champions have I slain? Civilians? I've never known the count._

Marrah and the other Dark Rangers pick up the conversation, small talk largely aimed at Anya: asking after her rounds, what the weather is like outside, if she wants more salt. They are enraptured with her answers, if only because they watch with unmitigated interest Taelia's responses to Anya's words.

At first, Jaina worried that this was some predatory, cruel game, but the longer it continues the more she grows convinced that they are all incredibly invested in what boils down to their friend's crush. Taelia blushes, somehow more uncomfortable despite Alina returning with her cloak and listening with rapt attention to everything Anya says.

It's hard to imagine the Dark Rangers as she did before: a deadly fleet of archers on the battlefield, capable of decimating entire Alliance battalions without remorse or hesitation.

Jaina should have expected this sudden humanizing, if she could call it that, given her proximity with Sylvanas' closest followers. It is, perhaps, the abruptness of it that she finds the most surprising, particularly after the heart-stopping terror she experienced only hours before. Her emotions still feel sore from it, raw and unprotected. She takes a bite of the bread roll, grateful she doesn't have to carry the conversation right now.

Sylvanas leans in her chair, knuckles holding up her chin. She watches Jaina eat with the detached focus of a chaperone, as if she's worried she won't finish her soup. When Jaina finishes her first roll, Sylvanas wordlessly slides her a second one on a plate, careful not to touch the food itself.

At first, Jaina simply stares at the roll and its little clay dish. She could ignore it or refuse to eat it outright. She doubts that Sylvanas would rear up, a beast in her fury, and clutch at her face in frustration again. She wouldn't jump over the table and press their bodies together, forcing Jaina where she wanted her.

_She turned me into a pathetic little ragdoll. I lost._

How Modera would be disappointed in her for reverting to her novice mistakes: dropping her spells when frightened. She'd worked so hard to steel her nerves; she'd improved so much, only to fail when it mattered most: in her posturing against Sylvanas.

The shock of it still burns at her. Sylvanas' movement and anger and proximity, all terrifying alone, combined with the deeper sensation that-- not only did she notice things about Jaina-- but she was displeased with what she saw. 

The concept that Sylvanas had been watching her, _reading_ her, made her knees weak. But then followed the true terror: the fact that she was right. There is no use denying Sylvanas Windrunner. She could pluck the truth from the air as easily as a dragonfly, ripping off its wings, preventing it from straying too far again.

She is a hunter and a tracker, and keeping secrets would simply be a waste of time for one so capable of sussing them out.

_"Look at yourself. You're starving to death. Stop demanding of the dead, and feed the living first."_

Jaina saw herself in the mirror, the prominent bones of her sternum rising and falling as she gasped, the hollowness of her cheeks above heavy dark circles: she was unwell. A woman starving, a woman unable to rest. Even in that moment, only Sylvanas' power and the strength of her arms held Jaina upright.

Jaina slowly rips the roll in half, relishing the warmth of it on her fingertips, and takes a bite. She does not break eye contact. With her left hand, she slides her glass of water to Sylvanas. An equal trade: bread and water. If Jaina will eat, Sylvanas will drink.

The Banshee Queen may have different needs than other Forsaken, but Derek and Calia both said they feel better, more alive, when they regularly eat and drink, even if they do not truly require either to go on unliving.

Water is neither blood nor spirit, but now Jaina knows on some level how to provide what they both need. She is nothing if not resourceful and will take her victories in slow, measured steps.

The glass gently clinks against Sylvanas' gauntlet. The Warchief raises her eyes to Jaina's and slowly, intentionally, lifts the glass to her lips. She takes a small sip.

The warmth of satisfaction spreads across Jaina's face, and she takes another bite of her bread. She turns away, rejoining the conversation to her right, purposefully ignoring the red eyes that still bore pinpricks into the base of her neck.

When they finish their lunch, Anya and the Rangers guide Taelia back to their quarters to retrieve the rest of her armor, and Nathanos slips away with a curt nod. Jaina thanks Mr. Shelley for the food, and he smiles widely, dead skin peeling into less of a rictus grin and more of an expression of pride. She thinks her time with Derek will help her understand the Forsaken and appreciate that they aren't so far removed from their living counterparts that she cannot enjoy their company.

_The peace must start with me._

So Jaina and Sylvanas stand alone in the Orgrimmar throne room, surrounded by mounted weapons and polished armor. She feels the wards around her, just as weak as the ones in the Warchief's suite several floors above. The Alliance always was better at defensive magics.

She releases Sylvanas' arm, noting with a touch of contentment that her fiancee offers it consistently now, and she walks along the walls for a closer inspection. A heady tension overcomes her if she tries to maintain contact with Sylvanas except when absolutely necessary, and that is never the case when they are alone.

"I can return in two days' time to reinforce the remaining wards, if that is amenable to you," says Jaina. "I will try the new portal in the living room."

Sylvanas watches her, hawkish and stern. "Very well. After noon. I have morning meetings that I will not reschedule again."

"That will be fine."

Jaina admires the elven weapons and armor, all of them inscribed with complicated runes and arcane auras. In fact, there are only two weapons in the entire room that are non-magical: matching beautifully crafted short swords that appear ceremonial in nature. From the style of them, Jaina knows they are very old, but meticulously tended. They hang on a mount behind Sylvanas' throne, displayed in a place of honor.

They are inscribed in old Thalassian: the right, Selama, and the left, Merd'an.

_Justice and Mercy._

"Are these your blades?" asks Jaina. She has never seen the Warchief use a sword of any kind, only her bow, Deathwhisper, the bane of her soldiers.

Sylvanas approaches her from behind, slowly and deliberately, a far cry from the bestial blur in the study. Jaina closes her eyes for a moment, willing herself to stillness. She will not flinch when Sylvanas comes near and, as she has so brutally learned, neither shall she posture.

Sylvanas breathes when she speaks-- Jaina reprimands herself, _of course she does, how obvious,_ but the notion didn't spring to mind readily until she could feel it on her neck, the exhale strangely cool, the banshee's answer to her shuddering, terrified gasp-- and she says, "They were my mother's." 

The realization strikes Jaina hard, a butcher's cleaver through a cut of meat, and she recoils with a singular blink. The swords seem to hang heavier now, the Banshee Queen’s answer to Anduin's Shalamayne and her own anchor pendant. She has never heard Vereesa discuss their mother, not even to her sons and Arator, so great is the burden of Lireesa Windrunner's death on the heads of her daughters.

And mingled with the crushing weight of the subject at hand is the electric stun of Sylvanas' honesty. The answer is offered as freely as if she'd placed her mother's swords in Jaina's hands. As if this is a continuation of her apology, her remorse. As if she asks for Jaina to strike her, armed with this knowledge that could lay her low, her vulnerability the worst form of punishment.

Jaina feels the heat rise within her, the ache to punish Sylvanas for all of her crimes, now armed with such emotional power over her, but she cannot dole it out. She is no executioner for all the songs they sing about her.

Instead, she whispers, "They are lovely weapons."

Jaina faces Sylvanas, whose visage is tense, eyes focused straight ahead. Jaina says, "I wish for my mother to give me away, and for my brothers to attend the wedding. I know that this is all for... politicking and peace, but I would be remiss not to invite them."

Sylvanas does not react. "That is your prerogative," she coolly says.

Jaina does not shy away from difficult subjects, but there is a great risk with her next question, but she is pulled by the impetus that it must be addressed. She molds it in her mind, debating how best to present it to minimize the damage. She is exhausted, and does not have it in her to fight again.

"I will respect whatever you decide for the wedding," Jaina says, turning to face her. "But what of your family?"

Sylvanas tilts her head, eyes still trained on her mother's swords, as if she cannot bear to look directly at Jaina. "Nathanos and the Dark Rangers will attend me."

The Warchief remains still, a monument of ashen grey. Her hair is not so thin, not so brittle as Jaina expected. It is straight and serious and falls across one side of her face without a hood holding it back. It sits like a funeral shroud, and it suits her.

"I care not who else attends," Sylvanas murmurs. Her ears flatten against her head, hard and stubborn.

The statement disappoints Jaina, as if Sylvanas admitting she feels sentimentality for her mother's swords is acceptable, but recognizing her estranged sisters is still a step too far. The vulnerability is gone, and she is a closed book. Jaina resists the urge to reach out to her, to thumb through her pages and learn the truth of whatever is left of her heart, to parse through her withheld words.

Instead, she lowers her hand to her side, and says, "You do not have to lie to me."

Sylvanas' eyes finally flicker to her face, ruby-red and burning, miserable and contemplative. They stand framed beneath Lireesa Windrunner's blades for a long moment, staring at one another in silence, before the door to the throne room opens. They each take a step back, the intensity of the gaze interrupted.

Taelia steps through, wearing her Kul Tiran armor and warhammer, accompanied by Anya alone. They seem in far higher spirits than earlier.

Jaina nods to her bodyguard and opens a portal with a wave of one arm. It shimmers and ripples into existence, blue energy twisting into a circle.

"Farewell, Taelia," says Anya.

"Farewell, Anya," she replies with a smile.

Jaina takes a final look at Sylvanas, who has returned to facing her mother's swords, and walks through the portal.

Neither of them say goodbye.

* * *

Edit: THIS IS AN ALERT! AAAHHHHH! Thank you so much, [@DinosaurUnicorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/profile) for my first Ink and Honor fanart! I love how sweetly you've drawn Taelia and Anya! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this brief respite from the pit of angst... even though I returned you... to the pit of angst.


	12. Thalyssra, Liadrin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Go back and look at the ADORABLE Taelia/Anya art that @DinosaurUnicorns drew for Chapter 11. I love it so much!  
> 2\. This whole first half of this is a gratuitous brunch scene because I love the Nightborne fam.  
> 3\. Thank you deeply for your comments and support. I'm having so much fun writing this fic, depressing content or not, and chatting with y'all in the comments has been one of the best parts of the experience.

"Are you decent?" asks Valtrois, repeatedly knocking on the bedroom door. "We're making you breakfast and you're going to tell us everything. I even found a tiny basket and champagne glasses, so you can't say no."

Thalyssra snaps out of a reverie, and smiles despite the early hour.

"Flutes," Stellagosa corrects her softly.

"Champagne _flutes_ ," Valtrois clarifies. Thalyssra can practically hear her eyes roll through the door.

She lowers her pen and closes her notebook; her thoughts on inter-faction reparations set aside for now. She hasn't shared a meal with her friends in nearly a month, and the idea of spending time with them settles her nerves. They have so much to discuss, and never failed to lift her spirits.

Last time they ate dinner together was in the Nighthold-- pasta and crusty bread and olive oil-- and even Theryn had slurped up some noodles, gurgling happily. Her heart aches to remember their hunger, their withering, the echoes of the pain still evident when they gazed upon the fruit of Arcan'dor. But now they eat to fullness, sharing their meals with the First Arcanist as often as they could. Her world is so much brighter with them in it.

_They are too good for me._

"It's rather early for champagne," she says as she rises, opening the door. "But I can't refuse a tiny basket."

"Well we're going to put orange juice in it. We're not _animals_ , Thalyssra," says Valtrois. "Oculeth's pressing them now."

Thalyssra frowns. "Is it wise to let Oculeth back in the kitchen?"

Stellagosa says, "He insisted. I'm sure he's trying to prove his culinary skills again. He was rather... embarrassed about the last time with the knife."

After nearly slicing off a finger trying to bake an apple tart, Oculeth was banished from kitchen duty, or at least unsupervised kitchen duty. But by the time the three women make it downstairs to the dining room, he is bustling around safely, making his standard cooking mess.

"Good morning, good morning. Today we have fresh fruit, strawberry yogurt, maple pancakes, fried eggs, and," he flourishes a ball of dough, spraying a cloud of flour in the air, "rough puff pastry. None of which require slicing, mind you."

Stellagosa wordlessly joins him in the kitchen, pressing a quick goodbye kiss to Valtrois' cheek as she ties an apron around her waist. Thalyssra feels the simultaneous ping of joy and jealousy: her Arcanist and the Blue Dragon are a lovely couple, so compatible and happy together. They are hardly ever apart now.

Valtrois wastes no time retrieving the champagne from her tiny basket, popping the cork and pouring mimosas for the four of them. She flops into a chair as she waits for brunch to be ready.

"Arluelle told me something interesting," she says. She raises an eyebrow at Thalyssra, champagne flute pressed to her lips. "She said you disappeared in Dalaran before the meeting, and then spent half the time mooning when everyone else was reading the treaty." Valtrois takes a sip; the shimmer of her arcane tattoos reflects off the glass. "Which lucky lady caught your attention?"

Thalyssra blinks once, twice. _Am I so obvious?_

"I was absolutely _not_ mooning. And how do you know it was a woman?" asks Thalyssra.

Valtrois is uncommonly perceptive but they'd never discussed romance in any capacity, and it had been literal centuries since Thalyssra had even considered the notion of flirting with someone. She was never any good at it, especially now that the whole world of Azeroth is open to her. No one would choose her as a prospect when there are so many better candidates.

_It wasn't really flirting with Vereesa anyway. Was it? She saved me from an extremely problematic conversation._

She thinks of the hand on the small of her back, and the smile in Vereesa's blue eyes when she'd asked for a tour.

"Please," Valtrois says, "Number one, you just told me. Number two, I saw the way you use to look at Ly'leth. I can't blame you for it; she has such a lovely voice. Those dulcet tones never fail--"

She stops short. Stellagosa locks eyes with her from the window over the kitchen bar, a placid smile on her face.

"Anyway, you won't have luck barking up that tree. She's straight as an arrow, that one. Oculeth would have a better chance."

"Oculeth dates women his own age, thank you," the Telemancer pipes up, smashing the dough with a rolling pin.

"Spare me," says Valtrois. "After you hit five thousand it hardly matters."

Stellagosa smiles, "That's good to hear, darling. I'm at least thrice your age."

"Cradle robber," Valtrois says, raising her flute in a toast. "But we are getting off-subject. I need our First Arcanist to tell me who has her pining after one quick visit to the primitive world."

Thalyssra takes a seat, daintily sipping her mimosa. She tries for a moment to not appear bashful, then remembers she's rather awful at hiding things, especially from the trio currently invading her kitchen.

"Dalaran is far from primitive. I would love for you all to visit with me some day. The leylines there are magnificent and the Violet Citadel is a wonder."

Valtrois furrows her brow. "Are we to extrapolate, then, that you have a crush on the city of Dalaran?"

"No! That's absurd."

"Then why don't you tell us your side of what happened and we'll figure the rest out," Valtrois says.

So she tells them. Between bites of yogurt she explains Sylvanas' summons, the arcane power of Dalaran, of Orust and Detlev, the argumentative soldiers, and of Vereesa Windrunner's fairness in handling them. She speaks of the kindness of her rescue, and the offer for the tour. She embellishes nothing and neither does she hide her emotions, not from the only family she has.

"Bold as ever," says Oculeth, "wandering away from the Citadel like that."

"I wasn't trying to be bold," Thalyssra counters. "I was merely curious."

"Ah, what's the difference?" he says. "You are the First Arcanist for many reasons, not the least of which is your ceaseless thirst for knowledge."

Valtrois smirks, "It sounds like she thirsts for more than knowledge."

Thalyssra blushes deep blue, and Stellagosa swats at Valtrois' arm. She softly says, "The Dragonflights are quite fond of Vereesa Windrunner for her heroism in freeing Queen Alexstraza."

"I've read a bit about her deeds," Thalyssra admits. "She and Rhonin were quite a pair."

She'd read about Theramore too: the mana bomb, Garrosh Hellscream's treachery, the decimation of an entire city in an instant. The pain of Theramore's history is intense, ugly, and unnecessary, not unlike Elisandre brutalizing Suramar. But the thought of Vereesa-- a widow with two young sons, no sisters left to comfort her, a best friend carrying the survivor's guilt of knowing _she_ is the reason her husband is gone-- is far worse.

_And she still came to save me twice over._

"Perhaps you will be lucky and she'll be your peer," says Oculeth.

"Perhaps you'll take fate into your own hands, and you will make it so," Valtrois says. She pops a grape into her mouth. "You've been sent the system blueprints from Ironforge. You said that Mekkatorque's design was very clever when combined with our telemancy." She pauses, "I've been thinking--"

"A dangerous thing," Stellagosa snarks.

She ignores her entirely, "--that perhaps determining leadership pairings committed to upholding the peace in Azeroth deserve a _touch_ more thought than a random number generator can provide. Maximizing the pairings for compatibility and efficiency strikes me as far more likely to obtain the desired long term results." She spoons up a bit of yogurt. "Don't you think, Thalyssra?"

Thalyssra smiles. With the exception of Stellagosa, no one defeats Valtrois in an argument. She says, "I hear your point, but I assure you the system is fair. Otherwise we'd all play favorites and try to end up paired with the High King himself. Anduin is hospitable and friendly, and would no doubt be an interesting conversationalist. It would certainly be easier for our people to gain favor with the Alliance if I paired with him, but I will not be doing that unless the system decides it."

Valtrois curves her lips. "You're so darling, Thalyssra. Anduin Wrynn is not at all what I meant. You are owed a tour of Dalaran by one Vereesa Windrunner. I merely suggest that you ensure you get it before she's spending all her time wooing Gallywix or someone equally unappealing."

Thalyssra _did_ pity whomever in the Alliance would draw the Gallywix straw.

"I can't _cheat_ the pairing system."

Thalyssra stops short. Her brain fires rapidly, reconsidering her statement.

Mekkatorque's design is clever: a simple red-banded metal ball for the Horde, and a blue-banded one for the Alliance counterpart. Each leader would receive one according to their faction, and through an ingenious combination of magic and engineering, illusory numbers would appear floating over each sphere at the press of a button. Peers would be determined by matching numbers, and their names would then be magically projected onto a floating sign for the whole room to see.

Altering the numbers to ensure a desired pairing would be simple. Altering the sign to indicate the change would... also be simple. She'd seen the spells required, knows how to twist their signals, and is more than powerful enough to shape them surreptitiously, nigh instantaneously. The only danger is the possibility of being caught, though she isn't certain anyone in the room would be quick or perceptive enough to sense her arcane adjustments.

_Perhaps Jaina, or Khadgar._

Thalyssra chews the inside of her mouth. She _could_ cheat the pairing system. Valtrois smiles at her, pouring them both a second mimosa.

Oculeth slides a stack of maple pancakes in front of her then disappears back to the kitchen saying, "Pastry's going to take a bit. We'll call it a second course. Eat up."

"Look," Valtrois continues. "I certainly don't want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but neither do I think it's prudent for you, both as an individual and as the leader of Suramar, to have to live the rest of your days paired in a futile partnership because a stupid ball told you to. I'm certain you would have picked someone like Gelbin or Jaina Proudmoore if you'd had your choice, but consider too that Vereesa Windrunner has ties to both the Warchief and the High King. She came to our aid, and no one else from the Alliance can say the same."

"Tyrande also defended us," Thalyssra murmurs.

Valtrois raises an eyebrow, "I think we both know Tyrande is off the table as far as peers go. Besides, she was a reluctant savior at _best_."

Thalyssra sets down her flute, cutting her pancakes into bite-sized pieces. She quells the perpetual sting of guilt and sorrow that rises in her gut when Tyrande is mentioned. The High Priestess' dissmissiveness to the Nightborne and their mana addiction should rankle her, but it doesn't. Tyrande has suffered enough.

She changes the subject, "That aside, I have no reason to think Vereesa Windrunner has any interest in me. She is a widow and is very busy, and probably wouldn't... prefer me regardless."

Valtrois downs the rest of her mimosa. "She touched your _lower_ back, Thalyssra."

"Twice!" Oculeth adds from the kitchen.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I beg to differ, madame," says Valtrois.

Stellagosa nods along, musing, "I suppose it's possible she's a touchy-feely high elf, though that's not particularly common outside of their families and lovers. Is Sylvanas that way?"

"Oh, absolutely not," Thalyssra heaves an unsteady laugh. The mental image of Sylvanas touching her lower back makes her jaw tighten. The Warchief is a terrifying woman despite the way she welcomed the Nightborne to the Horde, and has none of the calm, effortless grace of her younger sister.

"Then that settles it," Valtrois says. "Whether she's your peer or not, you are morally obligated to pursue her. The lower back situation is an _extremely_ obvious indicator. It's practically a waltz."

She rises, taking Stellagosa's hand around her champagne flute, placing the other on the small of her back. They fall into a sweeping, soundless dance, feet stepping in time across the dining room floor. Stellagosa laughs, sloshing her mimosa, as Valtrois takes the lead. Thalyssra places her hands in her lap, smiling at their sweetness and wondering how much, if any, of their advice is prudent to follow. It obviously works for them, though she is no Stellagosa, and is certainly no Valtrois.

They spend the rest of the morning dancing and plotting, stopping only when Oculeth serves the rough puff pastry.

* * *

There is a knock at the front door. Liadrin sets down her knife, wiping her hands on the dishrag hanging beside the kitchen sink. She's not expecting Salandria for another fifteen minutes, and the child never knocks when she returns home.

She turns to peer outside the window, her green blouse rustling as she leans, and catches the tell-tale purple of a Forsaken cloak. At least two Dark Rangers loom outside her door.

She picks the knife up again.

When she answers the door, knife hidden firmly behind it, the grim visage of Sylvanas Windrunner stands before her, flanked on either side by Dark Rangers. One of them, Liadrin doesn't know their names, carries a large white clothing box. They all look relatively calm, as relaxed as they can standing in the streets of their former home, but she wonders how long it's been since many of them have seen Silvermoon.

"Forgive my interruption, Lady Liadrin. I was in the neighborhood and thought I might catch you alone," Sylvanas says. "I've important business to discuss with you."

Liadrin's eyes flicker to the white box. "Going shopping?"

"Not quite. I'd something to retrieve from Halduron." Sylvanas glances down at her left hand hidden behind the door, the one clutching the doorknob and knife. "Going to stab me?"

Liadrin tsks. "Not quite."

She opens the door fully, gesturing for Sylvanas and her party to come inside from the winter cold. Two Rangers enter, taking seats in the small, tidy living room; the other two remain posted outside the front door. Liadrin doesn't bother hiding the knife, and returns to the kitchen to finish slicing apples for Salandria's afternoon snack.

Sylvanas sits on a stool at the counter, her gruesome armor a strange counterpoint to homely aesthetic around her.

"Does Lor'themar know you're here?"

"No, I don't have time to explain to him _again_ that we cannot rearrange the peers once chosen, even if he draws Vereesa," she sneers. "I've told him ten times to rest easy knowing that he won't pull Proudmoore."

Liadrin arranges the apple slices on a plate. She ignores the comment about Vereesa and says, "I'd take Proudmoore over Wrynn."

She tries not to think again of Dalaran and the mound of Sunreaver corpses. If swallowing the scream of vengeance that tears through her heart is what it takes for a peaceful world-- a safe place for Salandria to grow up-- then so be it. Liadrin could devour any pain, crush any personal satisfaction for that outcome. She has no forgiveness to offer, that is too far a bridge to cross, but neither will she sabotage the peace.

If she could work with Amani Trolls, she could work with the Alliance. The future of Azeroth has been signed into existence, and it's too late to back out of it now.

Sylvanas huffs, the corner of her lip quirking up. She never quite laughs anymore; the raucous, contagious sound that used to fill the Spire when her pranks went just according to plan is long gone. Liadrin understands why. Her laughter was stolen too.

"As would I, obviously. He's like a puppy, but with a hereditary monarchy at his disposal."

"I don't have dogs for a reason," says Liadrin.

There is a pause, the half-smile fades, and Sylvanas stares at her pointedly. "He'd have been happier just staying a Priest."

Liadrin tosses the knife in the sink. She hates this double-speak, the implications of it; she has enough from Rommath and Lor'themar, constantly using metaphor instead of saying what they mean.

"Yes, well. Fate willed it otherwise. We can't all be happy."

Sylvanas hums. "You always were more of a cat person. Regardless, there's a reason the peace treaty didn't feature the Warchief marrying the High King. I'd rather stay at war." 

Liadrin's face remains impassive. She spoons the peanut butter onto the plate, likely more than Salandria really needs, but it's her favorite part. Growing up, Vereesa had a sweet tooth too; she would steal Liadrin's peanut butter in exchange for apple slices, stopping only if Lireesa caught them at work. Once separated, the worst punishment Windrunner matriarch would ever inflict on them, they would simply make faces at each other from across the kitchen table.

When Alleria babysat she was far less stern than her mother: she'd always give them both extra peanut butter.

Liadrin sets the snack down beside a glass of milk in front of an open stool at the counter, Salandria's normal seat. The girl is undoubtedly on her way home from school, escorted by her tutors and guards. Liadrin spares no expense on her education and security detail, and would never risk her safety.

The Warchief's eyes glance around the kitchen, lingering on the plate of food with an interest that displeases Liadrin. She has no desire to discuss her ward.

_Does she remember her mother slicing apples at the Spire, or is that lost too?_

"Why are you here, Sylvanas?" she asks, palms pressed flat against the countertop. "You don't make house calls."

Red eyes narrow, dancing across Liadrin's face like they're predicting a response to an unasked question, like they're trying to read her. For a moment Sylvanas looks uncertain, a rarity for the woman and an impossibility for the Warchief, as if she struggles with something unspoken. Then the look passes, replaced by the hardness of death, concrete and uncaring.

She flatly says, "I want you to officiate my wedding."

Liadrin remains still and says nothing, but the words ring in her ears. She has learned there is great power in her silence, even used against a woman as deadly and malicious as Sylvanas. Once she was endlessly stubborn but incredibly warm, a fascinating warrior. She was full of love then too, until the Lich King stole it away.

Liadrin ignores the deep pang of pride, of admiration and honor. Sylvanas Windrunner was a hero, the big sister Liadrin never had, the woman who was lost and found and lost again, eaten by the Banshee inside her. She will tell not a soul, not even herself, that, while she refuses to abandon Sylvanas, she cannot trust the woman who burned Teldrassil and blighted her own city.

_What would Vereesa say?_ she wonders, hating herself for the thought.

Months ago, she had a fleeting moment of weakness: a powerful desire to speak with Vereesa in Suramar while they were finally unified in their goals. But she wouldn't, she couldn't; too much had changed. Instead she hardened her heart, convincing herself that they'd spent far longer apart than together. 

_She made no effort to speak to me either._

Sylvanas looks away from her angrily, turning her head to the open door to Salandria's room. Her toys are neatly tucked into the wooden chest beside her bookshelf. A child's training bow sits beside it, blunted arrows leaning in their quiver.

The Warchief scowls. She bitterly adds, "You can refuse if you wish."

Before Liadrin can respond, there is a commotion at the front door: the sound of shuffling feet, a raised voice. Liadrin springs into action, striding forward and flinging open the door. Two Blood Knights stare down the Dark Rangers, suspicious of their unexpected allies. Behind them, Salandria looks from face to face, her blonde hair bobbing under a knit cap.

"Stand down," Liadrin orders. "They are my guests. Come inside, Salandria." She dismisses the guards with a curt, "Go with the Light."

The Dark Rangers do not move, grim statues on her doorstep, except to watch Salandria pass by. Liadrin cannot blame them for their fascination. She knows the Forsaken are rarely around children anymore.

Salandria shrugs off her backpack, hat, and coat, placing them neatly on a rack near the door. She removes her boots and stares at the two Rangers sitting inside, still planted on the sofa beside the large white box.

"Hi," she says. "I'm Salandria. It's my snack time."

The Rangers wave, smiling at her as she climbs up the stool beside Sylvanas. Her small hands reach for an apple slice, heaping it with peanut butter. Perching, she stares at Sylvanas' armor, taking in the feathers and skulls.

"Are you the Warchief?" she asks without fear.

Sylvanas casts a shadow over the child, a stranger in a home where outsiders rarely tread, but Salandria kicks her feet on the stool, lackadaisical as ever. Liadrin feels deep pride at her ward's bravery, followed by the prickling fear that she should show more deference for her own safety.

"Quite right," Sylvanas drawls. She shows no hint of amusement, but neither does she move from her seat.

"I read about you in school." Salandria scoops up more peanut butter and Liadrin's heart pounds, a heavy drumbeat in her ears.

_Gods, do not mention the Scourge or Teldrassil._

Her shoulders tense, eyes trained on Sylvanas' hips, the first indicator of a strike. She would die where she stood before letting Salandria suffer.

The girl continues, "But there weren't any pictures in the book, so it was hard to tell if it was really you. You're very tall."

"Yes," Sylvanas says. She offers a small grin, a flash of her fangs, and adds, "It's advantageous to be tall on the battlefield. Good for an archer."

Salandria nods, and asks between bites, "Are you Liadrin's friend?"

Sylvanas' visage darkens again, a rubber band stretched to snapping. She stares down at the child, tall and looming, a bogeyman from a storybook. For all the terror she inspires, she looks incredibly tired, a sad, ancient monster out of place in the suburban kitchen. Her mouth is flat, sorrowful, an echo of the uncertain woman who first admitted to Liadrin what she wanted, then backed down from it as if asking in the first place was a crime.

She does not know how to answer the child's question.

It strikes Liadrin all at once that Sylvanas must be terribly lonely, only partially of her own accord. She takes a deep breath, relaxes her muscles, and sets her mouth. She does not abandon her own.

"Yes," Liadrin firmly answers. "She is my friend, and has been for many years. I'm going to preside over her wedding."

Sylvanas' eyes flash up to her own, the lonely longing replaced by something surprised, something relieved. The disparity between her shocked happiness and the animalistic hunch of her shoulders reminds Liadrin of a cornered beast, lured out for once with food, not fire and smoke, suspicious but too overwhelmed to question the gift laid at the entrance of its lair.

Salandria looks up at her, baby face smiling, a stark contrast to the shock still permeating Sylvanas' features. She says, "That will be so nice! Are you going to wear a dress?"

"I am," Sylvanas finally answers. She rises from the stool, sliding it back beneath the bartop. She leans her hip against the ledge, arms crossed, "Feathers too."

"What color?"

"White, of course, like a swan."

"Oh, I like red. Like cardinals, and the Horde."

"What superlative taste you have," Sylvanas says. She glances up to Liadrin with a small nod. "It's time I left you to your evening, Lady Liadrin. I will be in touch."

Very gently, she taps a sharpened gauntlet on the rim of Salandria's plate, still piled high with fruit. She leans down to the child and whispers, "Eat your apples. For the Horde."

The Warchief strides out of Liadrin's house without a further word, Dark Rangers in her wake, as Salandria happily pops an apple slice into her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An apple a day keeps the Warchief away.


	13. Shandris, Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, ahoy! You are all delightful beauties. Thank you for reading and commenting!

"Sentinel-General!" a frightened voice shouts, carrying clearly across the frigid ground of Lor'danel.

Shandris rises quickly from the chair in her tent, grabbing her bow, followed by Alleria, who nocks an arrow in Thas'dorah without hesitation.

They'd been reading missives all morning, drafting responses, pondering how to address Shandris' place on the Reparations Council with Moira Thaurissan and Genn Greymane. The Horde selected Queen Talanji of Zandalar, Lilian Voss, and First Arcanist Thalyssra Eles as their own representatives, and she felt woefully unprepared to field a discussion with any one of them, much less all three. Shandris is neither a scholar, nor an orator. 

Though she did find it extremely helpful to bounce ideas off of Alleria, who seemed to enjoy the correspondences and conversations, for all of her understandable discomfort around signing the Treatise itself. Shandris wondered if Alleria would have preferred being a statesman, as easily and cleverly as she provided her responses, had things been different for her family.

They'd walked along the shore together, Alleria looking out at Teldrassil, as she often did, the dawn light casting a pink glow to her cheeks. Shandris enjoyed listening to her musings, watching her smile. She loved sleeping beside her at night, though each evening brought the uncertainty that Alleria would change her mind, that she would suddenly refuse the closeness for its impropriety.

Shandris wouldn't blame her if she did. A heavy measure of guilt consumes Shandris when she thinks too long about her predicament, her growing attraction and desire for more. How deeply she'd wanted to kiss her after they returned from Dalaran, lost and aching with shame, eyes burning through a sheen of tears.

Shandris held back, ignoring the longing, quelling the twist in her chest. She would never disgrace Alleria. She would never cause her more pain. So she held her more tightly, content in the embrace, and buried her desires deep in the center of her heart.

Alleria Windrunner is still married to a hero and a good man, a savior of the Alliance, but she is not responding to his messages. One night, laying on her back, her shoulder a pillow for Shandris' head, she said, "I need to speak with Turalyon." It was the only time she mentioned him by name.

Shandris didn't press her for more, but pushed their bodies closer together. Alleria wrapped her arms around her tightly, fingers threading through blue hair. How desperately Shandris had wanted to kiss her again, to take her face in her hands and make her forget her pain. She loved the way Alleria responded to her, slow and uncertain at first, her touches increasingly intimate over time, as if she'd forgotten what contact felt like but craved it constantly now.

Shandris hardens her face. The cadre of night and void elves approach them, corralling a massive tauren man with an axe on his back. He wears Horde red over plate armor but shows no sign of aggression, only nervousness. He holds nothing but a simple letter, sealed in orange wax.

The tauren gives a clumsy, formal bow to Shandris-- the man is also a warrior, not a diplomat-- saying, "Peace and honor unto you." As soon as he speaks the rumbling greeting, his breath catches. He spots Alleria with her bow, and balks.

_He didn't expect her here. Has word traveled so quickly that she didn't sign the peace treaty?_

"Fear not for your safety in Lor'danel, soldier," Shandris says. "Alleria Windrunner is our ally, and she stands with honor beside us, signature or no." Shandris extends her hand to the messenger. "Come."

He nods, massive horns bobbing, "I bring word from High Chieftain Bloodhoof. He ordered that I deliver his letter to you, and only you, Sentinel-General."

With one hand she takes the letter, and the other she grips his forearm in the tauren fashion. She is ever grateful for Tyrande's teachings on diplomacy, even for the customs of the Horde. She misses her mother.

She opens the wax seal of the letter and begins.

_Sentinel-General Shandris Feathermoon,_

_I am in need of your expertise and assistance, and freely offer my own in return. I have in my care High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and her companion, Maiev Shadowsong, who has been gravely injured by a poison known to your people as Priestshood._

Shandris gasps, heart pounding. The information strikes her like a blacksmith's hammer on malleable steel, and she rocks back, unable to process everything at once. Vaguely, she feels Alleria's hand on the small of her back, turning her to face the entrance of her tent, away from the crowd. Her feet move mechanically as she's guided.

Priestshood is a forbidden poison, outlawed by the Alliance and Horde for use on the battlefield; only naga and war criminals use it. Tyrande taught her that, in the old days of the kaldorei, the only time the poison was used was when the victim and creator were both ready for death, so harsh was the punishment for developing the gruesome toxin.

_I write this letter in transit to Thunder Bluff, where our healers will tend to Warden Shadowsong, who slumbers soundly. She woke fully only once, frenzied, and called out for me. Maiev ordered me most emphatically to keep the High Priestess awake during the day, asleep at night, and be most wary of her temperament any time after the moon is risen. Thus far, Tyrande speaks to no one. She hunts the plains with her saber cat, and keeps to Maiev's side when she sleeps. She has not been violent since agreeing to come to Thunder Bluff as my guest, but we have not yet arrived in the city._

Her head spins. Maiev is dying. Her mother refuses to come home but goes deeper into Horde territory, and she travels there with the woman who promised to bring her back. _Who poisoned Maiev with Priestshood?_

Alleria softly rubs her back, blue eyes dancing across her face, concerned and supportive. Shandris takes a shuddering breath and continues.

_She knows of the peace treaty, and of the upcoming wedding. She had no response to the news of either._

Shandris' eyes widen, panic rising to a crescendo. Tyrande never stayed angry for long, but her rare bouts of real fury came with dragging silences, a small peek at the creeping quiet that washes over her now, a foretelling of the acidic hate that burned everything in her away.

She feels the terror of a child in trouble, awaiting her punishment for disobedience. She feels the crushing weight of her leader's judgment, and the judgment of her people. She swallows, breath catching in shallow pants.

"Hey," says Alleria, placing a steady hand on the chilled skin beneath Shandris' spaulders. "It's okay."

Shandris blinks hard. She'd forgotten she was surrounded by others, waiting and watching as she read the letter outside of her tent. Tears fall down Shandris' cheeks-- she didn't know when she started crying-- and she hastily wipes them away, thankful that Alleria turned her away from the messenger. She can't find her voice, can't catch her breath.

Alleria whispers, "Go inside. I'll take care of this."

"Come with me, shu'halo. Everyone, come with me," Alleria says. She releases her grip on Shandris and leads the tauren messenger away. "We thank you for your service and your bravery. You are welcome here with the night elves and the void elves. What's your name, warrior?"

"Yanis Twobluffs, Void Lady."

Alleria's jaw tightens at the name, but she presses on, "Thank you for your courage, Yanis. You will dine with us tonight and we will make arrangements for your safe return to Thunder Bluff tomorrow." She waves over one of her ren'dorei, Narrina, her second-in-command.

Shandris steps into her tent, carelessly dropping her bow to the floor. She keeps reading.

_I will contact you again as soon as we arrive, and will be sending similar letters to High King Wrynn and Warchief Windrunner shortly after I dispatch yours. My name is not yet signed on the Unification Treatise, but know that I have provided my wholehearted support for this peace. I will be asking for special dispensation from Anduin and Sylvanas to be Tyrande Whisperwind's unofficial peer, though she has not signed the treaty either. I wish to remain in Thunder Bluff as long as she is here._

She stares briefly at the fire in the center of the room; the embers need to be stoked. She does not understand so much about this letter, both what it means that she could not convince Tyrande to stay, and that Baine Bloodhoof somehow managed to succeed in retrieving her, not as a captive but as a guest. Shandris does not understand why Tyrande has not killed him, eviscerated his entire entourage, another massacre for her daughter to find. After the ritual she never paused, never hesitated, with anyone else from the Horde.

_Did Maiev change her mind?_

She remembers the terror she felt when Maiev stalked after Tyrande, both of them determined to hunt, each for different prey. Shandris was convinced that Tyrande would simply kill her and keep moving. She'd written Anduin for help immediately, desperate and suddenly alone.

Shandris' stomach churns. Her mother loathed needless violence: she did not have a vengeful bone in her body, only the desire to protect her people. She was the brightest star of all the kaldorei, gentle and loving, her good heart the balancing counterpoint to immense power.

_Sentinel-General, I have not seen her brutality firsthand, but I believe the woman in my care is not Tyrande Whisperwind as I knew her before Teldrassil was burned. The Horde call her the Night Warrior, though I know little of this moniker or how she came to change so greatly. I fear for my people when we return to Mulgore. Any information you have about this change in her demeanor could help keep us all safe._

Visions of the Well of Purity pass before her eyes, blurred by tears and time. The beam of moonlight coursed through her mother, its shockwaves so great Shandris fell to her knees, unable to breathe, a reprisal of the pressure of Theramore's mana bomb. It pulsed with rage and raw power, concepts Tyrande always rebuffed for the good of her people. In that moonlight there was only the Night Warrior and the fury of her revenge. The moon was black, and Tyrande was gone.

_I cannot predict how this will end, but you have my word that I will do all in my power to protect the High Priestess and her Warden._

_Yours in honor,_

_Baine Bloodhoof_

Alleria sweeps back into the tent, worry painted on her face. Shandris sits on the ground, on their little pallet, and wordlessly hands her the letter. She reads it quickly, then sits down behind Shandris, pulling her body close, arms wrapped around her middle. Her cheek rests between Shandris' shoulder blades, rising and falling as the night elf weeps.

"She's safe for now," Alleria breathes. "We're all safe for now."

Shandris turns around to face her, cheeks streaked with tears, and rests her forehead in the crook of Alleria's neck. They lay down together as Shandris sobs, Alleria clinging to her in silence. 

* * *

At noon the portal in the living room shimmers blue and Sylvanas looks up from her book, legs crossed on the sofa. Jaina Proudmoore emerges from the arcane gate wearing an informal blue robe inlaid with silver accents and buttons, capelet thrown over one shoulder. Her white hair is braided, as usual, and the dark circles beneath her eyes are as prevalent as ever.

As previously, Sylvanas finds it strange to see her out of battle armor. She looks smaller, more fragile.

Jaina clutches her ward notes in her left hand, staff in the right. Without preamble she asks, "Have you eaten today?"

Sylvanas frowns. While attempting to predict what Jaina is going to ask her next is historically unfruitful, she finds this topic of conversation particularly unexpected and unpleasant after their recent clash over her eating habits. 

"No."

"Good," says Jaina. She gingerly sets the notes on the globe of Azeroth, obscuring Northrend. "I have something for you."

She disappears through the portal again, and Sylvanas half expects her to reappear with a basket of cookies or something equally absurd and useless, but instead she strides through moments later with the furry scruff of a beast gripped tightly in left hand: a red fox, healthy and large, head lolling to the side, completely unconscious.

"My mother and her hounds caught this earlier today in the woods of Stormsong Valley. It's still alive but I've spelled it to sleep. You'll find our stock is healthy, as isolated as we are in Boralus."

Sylvanas keeps her face carefully empty, eyes trained on the fox. But Jaina speaks as if she reads her concern plain as day.

"I didn't tell her why I wanted it. My mother isn't one to ask questions when details aren't freely offered."

_Unlike her daughter,_ Sylvanas thinks. _Perhaps I should have courted the elder Proudmoore._

"Here," Jaina strides over to the sofa, holding the fox out to her. "Eat it."

Sylvanas raises an eyebrow. She slowly uncrosses her legs and closes her book, an historical study of the War of the Ancients. Jaina's glances down to the cover, ever curious. The fox's back legs and tail drag across the rug; its scent wafts up to Sylvanas, hearty and hale, a mossier musk than that of the creatures of Durotar.

Jaina lowers the sleeping animal to the floor, frowning at Sylvanas' unwillingness to accept her offering.

"I don't--" Sylvanas pauses. "I eat exclusively in the Throne Room."

"We have to go there anyway."

"I don't enjoy an audience when I... consume animals."

"You watched me eat."

"It's a _bit_ different," Sylvanas drawls, frustration rising.

"Not to me."

"It is to me."

"We're getting married in two weeks. Whether you like it or not, we will be spending a great deal of time in each other's company. I would rather have you fed--"

"I don't want to eat in front of you!" Sylvanas shouts, her voice sharp as a knife.

Jaina blinks at her, eyes searching her face, before she calmly says, "All right." She turns back to her notes, scooping them up from the globe. "But I want that pelt back when you're done. My mother wants to make it into a hat."

Sylvanas fumes silently for a moment, frustrated with herself for raising her voice. She is not so cool and collected with Jaina's constant prying into her existence, and she had incorrectly, _foolishly_ expected the Lord Admiral to maintain the same level of intense privacy that she did. 

She stares down at the fox, breathing evenly at her feet, and changes the subject.

"Where is your bodyguard?"

"Taelia's off, and I felt no need for another guard after my last visit." Her face tightens, displeased, as she sorts her notes. "Do you not trust me around your people?"

Sylvanas stoops down, armor creaking, and hoists the fox over her shoulder. She grabs her book with her other hand and pointedly stares at Jaina.

"Don't flatter yourself. For all our efforts, I don't trust that the whole of Orgrimmar even knows about the peace. Come along, Warqueen, you need to ward the Throne Room."

"I'm not the Warqueen yet," Jaina scoffs, hooking her staff to her back. "This will be repetitive. You don't need to babysit me while I work if you have other things to do."

Jaina slides her arm into Sylvanas'-- Sylvanas hadn't even offered it, her elbow was simply crooked-- and takes the book out of her hand, placing it like a tray beneath her stack of papers, carrying it for her. Her face retains its normal look of cold superiority despite the warmth of her body. 

_Awfully forward of you_ , _Jaina_ , the Warchief does not say.

"I'm not leaving you alone. There are already whispers of opposition and insurgency."

"SI:7 calls them Loyalists," Jaina says. "The title is apparently self-stylized."

The glimmer of information surprises Sylvanas, not the content of Jaina's words, but the context in which they were freely offered. The Unification Treatise called for inter-faction trust, a major sticking point for many leaders, but it pleases and perplexes Sylvanas in equal measure that Jaina stands before her, actually living it, however reluctantly.

"Dreadful name," Sylvanas says. "What are they loyal to? War?"

"Certainly not an allegiance with the Horde."

They open the double doors, linked arm-in-arm as they walk down the stairs. They pass Alina and Clea at their station, both of whom eye the fox slung over Sylvanas' shoulder, but fall silently in step behind them. They offer a slew of polite greetings to those they pass in the halls-- it takes all of Sylvanas' willpower not to roll her eyes at Jaina's cloying formality-- each and every one of them surveying the pair with a keen interest. When they come to the Throne Room, the Rangers stand at attention facing the hallway, and close the doors behind the Dark Lady and her consort.

Sylvanas finds herself warmer than usual, a furnace of anger at the thought that her opposition is already mobilized, a named threat. Or perhaps it is simply the body heat of the fox on one shoulder and Jaina on her other arm. She releases them both, dragging the fox unceremoniously to the foot of the Warchief's throne.

"Next time you refuse a bodyguard, I will assign you a Ranger. You're rather recognizable, Lord Admiral, even without your armor. It would be a shame if you wandered off and were gruesomely murdered in some dark corner of Grommash Hold before the wedding."

"Unlikely, but they could certainly try," Jaina coolly answers. Her gaze briefly follows Sylvanas' movement until she tears her eyes away, refocusing on her notes. She strides to the wall near the entrance, palm flat beneath a curved elven shield, and she gets to work.

The spiderweb of arcane warding alights in Sylvanas' vision, crystalline and oil slick, and Jaina traces her fingertips along the gossamer strands with a look of reverence. The scent of her magic fills the room, masking the musk of the fox with hyacinth and fig and that smell that isn't-quite-saltwater. She chides herself for not being able to identify it properly: death muted her palate.

"I assumed that would suit you."

"Your death?" Sylvanas barks a strained laugh. "No, I think I would be blamed rather quickly, don't you?"

"You would certainly be blamed for raising me."

Her brow furrows but her voice remains even, "There is no world in which I would raise you, Jaina Proudmoore. The odds of you becoming a Lich are astronomical."

Jaina glances up from her scrawling, surprised, whether by the use of her full name or the refusal, Sylvanas cannot discern. She says, "I couldn't. I don't have a phylactery. The Kirin Tor forbid it for obvious reasons."

Sylvanas dourly crosses her arms, the heady smell of Jaina's magic filling the space around her. The woman has no concept of her own power, nor what that power could do when her body died. The thought irrationally angers her: the image of another monster created to torture the world, the image of Jaina Proudmoore dead.

"You wouldn't need a phylactery if I raised you, only if you tried to do it yourself. I return souls to their bodies if they're intact enough, and your soul is bound in your magic. The risk is great."

Jaina rises to her full height, back straight, obviously intrigued. "You have Forsaken mages, but I have not seen a Forsaken lich."

Irritation bubbles up with a darkening scowl at Jaina's impertinence, her constant arguing. "Do you think," Sylvanas seethes, "after my _history_ with liches, that if I raised one I would allow it to continue to exist?"

Jaina stares at her from across the room, her lips slightly parted, head tilted just so. It is the same way she reads the spines of books, and the arcane webbing pulsing around her. It is the look she has when she wants to know more, but hasn't found the right question to ask. Sylvanas loathes her invasive curiosity, the first step in her endless march of provocation.

"No," she murmurs. "I'm quite certain you wouldn't."

Sylvanas turns her eyes away, frustrated. She cannot carry a conversation with Jaina without the woman bringing up a touchy subject; though, Sylvanas admits, nearly all of her life and undeath have been full of touchy subjects.

The fox's chest rises and falls beside Sylvanas' foot, gentle and rhythmic. She doesn't _need_ to eat again today, but it wouldn't hurt her temperament, and as soon as Jaina returns to Boralus, Sylvanas could deal with the emotional side effects in private. They haven't even begun to discuss anything substantive about the peer meeting or wedding.

The Lord Admiral continues her work, filling the room with her sweet, floral, saltwater magic. Sylvanas idly wonders how Jaina's blood would taste, what it would do to her--

_Fuck._

She snarls, sucking air between clenched teeth, and hears the crackle of her lungs as they expand, dusty from unuse. Her jaw flexes, gauntlet clutching the stone arm of the throne so tightly it threatens to disintegrate.

She has never, never _once_ , considered eating from a living human. The notion appalls her, a new depth of disappointment and self-loathing. She has lost control of her thoughts.

"Is something wrong?" Jaina asks. "I didn't mean to-"

"Turn around," Sylvanas orders, clutching the fox by its throat.

After a pause, eyes flickering to the animal clenched in her hand, Jaina obeys. She spins on her heel to face the wall, head lowered. As soon as Sylvanas sees her white braid, she bares her fangs, sinking them deeply into the jugular vein of the fox. It never moves, never twitches, but Jaina gasps, a tiny noise, when the beast's life is drained clean.

_Her sleeping spell. They were connected._

Sylvanas hardly has a moment to think, she is so overwhelmed by the life playing and bouncing inside of her; the fullness of it a relief. She drinks the blood and spirit freely, deeply, reveling in its warmth. The fox grins, a friendly, cackling thing, even as its husk drops to the marble floor with a soft thud.

Briefly, Sylvanas closes her eyes, the beginning of a smile playing on her lips. Now that she is full, she almost wants to laugh at herself for considering eating Jaina. _No doubt the Alliance would frown upon drinking my betrothed's blood. A stupid, invasive thought._ She smiles widely now, the jokes of vampirism abound. Greymane would have a field day.

She opens her eyes: Jaina is watching her again. Her smile vanishes like a wisp of smoke. She hadn't heard her turn around.

Sylvanas ignores her probing look, and sighs contentedly. She retrieves her exsanguinated prey, now significantly lighter, and says, "Thank you for the meal. I am not displeased with my first taste of Boralus."

She languidly strides across the room, and lays the fox at Jaina's feet. The Lord Admiral stares up at her, not repulsed or disappointed, but breathless. She murmurs, looking at what remains of the animal, "I felt it die. It was like... a candle being snuffed out."

Sylvanas frowns, "Did it hurt you?"

"No. Not at all."

Sylvanas hums, appraising the shield beside them. It once belonged to Thalorien Dawnseeker.

"Do you always feel death through your spells?" she asks.

"No, never like this. But I've never spelled something to sleep only to have it slain. It requires a small amount of concentration to keep it asleep, which might be why that happened."

"I ate the beast's spirit. No doubt your magic is attuned to it in some capacity. Most death begins with the body, not the soul, so you wouldn't normally feel that sensation."

Jaina tears her eyes from the fox, returning to Sylvanas' face. "You have a little," Jaina gestures to the corner of her own lower lip, "blood."

_Get it for me_ , Sylvanas thinks, smirking back. Instead she ignores the fox's spirit, licks the blood from her lips, and says, "Waste not, want not."

Jaina's face is turned up to her, her gaze dancing from her lips to her eyes to the freckles on the bridge of her nose. Sylvanas grows self-conscious of her scrutiny, and of the distance between them, far less than before. She turns away brusquely.

_She must see the changes in my face after I've eaten. Very little will slip past her notice, unfortunately._

"The fox will make a fine hat," she says offhandedly. "Though I'm rather surprised to hear your mother is a tanner."

"Mmhmm. She's a jack of all trades: some gardening, some hunting, some leatherworking. She also enjoys shooting at the range."

"An archer too? Be still my heart." Sylvanas purses her lips, "Well, I suppose it already is."

Jaina smiles back, "I'm not sure she's ever used a bow. She favors a rifle. Dwarven make, of course."

"Ah, too good to be true." Sylvanas crosses her arms.

Jaina consults her notes, palm against the wall. The webbing of light pulses, and her scent fills the air. Sylvanas breathes normally, a rarity, but she enjoys the smell far more than the normal burning oak of the Throne Room.

"She is... looking forward to the wedding, and determining her peer. As is Anduin, though your Reparations Council idea was rather off-the-cuff. Some warning would be nice."

Sylvanas grins, "I thought it was rather clever. I'm always happy to delegate."

"Delegate you did," Jaina mutters. "And then we had to delegate too. Anduin had a fit trying to explain what happened, and why he didn't mention the Reparations Council at the meeting. I thought Moira Thaurissan was going to strangle him."

"I knew I liked her."

Jaina levels her with a look over her shoulder. "Just warn us next time. Please."

Graciously dipping her head, Sylvanas says, "I'll warn you."

"Thank you." Jaina moves to the left, fingers gliding against the stone. "I asked Anduin to officiate our wedding. I thought he was an obvious choice to do it, given our stations, and the... political aspect of it."

There is a fleeting sting of displeasure, but it passes with a breath and Sylvanas is awash with amusement again. Her ears perk upward, "An obvious choice, yes, though not the one I made. Just yesterday I asked Liadrin Sunthread to officiate."

Jaina's eyes widen in surprise, her voice halting, confused, apologetic, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had a preference, but I can speak to Anduin about it. He was looking forward to-"

"No, no," Sylvanas stops her with a small wave. "It makes sense for the Horde and Alliance to both have an officiant. Both of the Light, no less." A chuckle rises in her throat, completely at Liadrin's expense; no doubt that tickle of naughtiness is the fox's doing. "She's going to _hate_ that."

Jaina searches Sylvanas' face again, the motion quickly becoming a habit, as if seeing her for the first time. Sylvanas doesn't turn away, though the laughter settles in her chest, distracted by the length of Jaina's eyelashes and the part of her lips. Her lone streak of blonde hair weaves its way in and out of her braid, bright as sunshine. It's rare Sylvanas is afforded the opportunity to openly consider another person without them withering beneath the glow of her eyes.

"Thank you for being flexible about it," says Jaina. Then, softer: "Thank you for eating."

The glimpse of vulnerability and honesty on Jaina's face makes Sylvanas feel feeble, as if she can't replicate her hopefulness, her earnestness. She remembers the mage sitting across the table in Dalaran, so sorrowful she shouldn't exist at all, her face a tempestuous sea. She remembers the frightened woman in the mirror, and the wave of guilt that crashed down on her after she realized she inflicted more suffering on someone who'd lived a lifetime of it.

Sylvanas wants to deserve her gratitude, but a voice in the back of her mind reminds her that she still does not, and never will.

Suddenly the double doors of the Throne Room creak open together, and Nathanos steps through, his brow furrowed. "Dark Lady, a message arrived for you. It's urgent." His red eyes slide to Jaina, to the fox, then back to Sylvanas, as if deciding whether or not he should continue. She extends her hand and he holds out a letter, bound by an orange wax seal.

"It's from Baine Bloodhoof."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point I'm even making myself suffer.


	14. Jaina, Anya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine party!!!

Jaina's stomach drops, the tinny ring sounds in her ears. Sylvanas' eyes dart across the letter, her lip curls up, an agonized sneer, and Jaina feels as if all the progress they'd made has been tossed out the window. A flush of embarrassment creeps into her cheeks as she comes into her senses, recalling the ferocity in Sylvanas' gaze. She feels exposed, and interrupted.

"Shall I go?" she softly asks despite the swell of curiosity prickling at her mind.

Sylvanas watches her keenly, darkly, now slouched in her throne with her mother's swords poised overhead. Her hard mask slips away by the second until only exhaustion remains. Jaina knows the feeling well, her constant companion, but did not expect to see the same from Sylvanas. The Banshee Queen doesn't need rest or sleep quite like the living and her determination, her indomitable drive, never seems to waiver.

But there is a chink in her armor. It is the look of bottled agony, torrid and tender, and the burden of knowledge that she can't lose control now or her fear will overwhelm them all. She is the last one standing.

_She is always the last one standing_ , Jaina recognizes. _Like me._

Before Nathanos interrupted them, Jaina felt something like normalcy when they spoke about her mother. Not quite friendliness, but the tone was cordial.

The conversation was brief but amiable enough, and Sylvanas kept her distance without being completely aloof. She became a different person after she ate the fox: a smiling, smirking creature, blood in the corner of her mouth, her ears upright like an elven child with a new toy. Her red eyes glowed bright and clever, as she looked at Jaina, perhaps a touch self-conscious about her sudden change in behavior.

Jaina could not help herself but stare back, studying her. It was the first time she'd seen her smile like that-- without a touch of cruelty or ruefulness-- looking for once like her sisters in their rare moments of joy.

Jaina had to still her own hand to not wipe the blood from her lips, a red stain on that enigmatic smile. If she still followed Valeera's dangerous advice, she would have reached up and swiped the blood away with her thumb, with all the smirking grit of a real sailor with saltwater in her veins and cocky fearlessness. She thinks that Sylvanas might have let her despite the intimacy of the gesture, so greatly changed was her demeanor as they stood together. The thought is disturbing.

Jaina could hear her breathing, a far cry from the ragged, cool breath on her neck in the study, holding her ragdoll form upright. The memory made her warm, worsened by their proximity to each other and the powerful urge Jaina felt to thank her for allowing her to witness such a private act, back turned or not.

For the first time, she felt almost comfortable alone with Sylvanas. Her ever-present rage, the rightful grudge she could never seem to shake in their previous meetings was simply absent as she looked up at the elf with freckles and fangs and strong, broad shoulders, and playful ears that stick straight up like Galadin's and Girmar's do when they go horseback riding. 

But the letter landed between them like a bomb, and Sylvanas' emotions are plain as day, as if she cannot or will not hide them. Hundreds of words spring to mind as Jaina reaches for the best description of Sylvanas' face, but all of her lofty, educated adjectives fail her and she settles on _sad_. 

"No, stay," she mutters. She holds the letter out to Jaina. "Read this."

Nathanos frowns, looking back and forth between them, and Jaina gets the distinct impression that he expected to read the letter next. The corner of his square jaw tugs down into a frown he's trying to resist, and he looks almost hurt. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of his response is that Jaina feels no desire to sneer, and instead a twinge of pity strikes her heart. She suppresses the thought of sympathizing with Nathanos fucking Blightcaller and takes the letter from Sylvanas' outstretched hand.

_This letter was for her alone. Is her sharing it a product of her eating? Or because I trusted her with information? If nothing else, she repays favors._

Sylvanas watches her intently as she reads. Jaina understands her litany of responses at once, as she soaks in Baine Bloodhoof's words. The letter terrifies Jaina, a hundred questions spring to mind, each more concerning than the last. The image of Tyrande Whisperwind-- no, the Night Warrior-- ravaging Thunder Bluff flashes before her eyes.

_She has been hunting the Horde like a wolf in a rabbit den_ , Jaina thinks. The notion makes her terribly uncomfortable, especially the thought that she herself will be counted among them now that Tyrande knows of their treaty, of their engagement. _But who poisoned Maiev, and what kind of poison could nearly kill her like that? How did Baine find Tyrande at all? Why isn't she attacking him? Where is Malfurion? What does this mean for the peace?_

Jaina stares at Sylvanas, and Sylvanas stares back.

She holds the letter out to Nathanos, who takes it with a guarded look. He reads it quickly, red eyes swallowing up the words, a sneer growing larger by the second. When he finishes, he returns the letter to Sylvanas, a matter of habit, and stands at attention.

"Nathanos, advise," she says, her high double voice needle-sharp.

"I recommend we send scouts to Thunder Bluff. In the event they've arrived since this letter was dispatched, we need reconnaissance. The possibility of mobilizing for a battlefront is not out of the question." His voice is flat, tactical. This is the Nathanos Marris who was once such an asset to the Alliance. "We should send Anya and Delaryn--"

"No." Sylvanas says. Her face betrays no emotion, but Jaina watches her keenly, knowing well that Delaryn Summermoon was at Teldrassil, and Shandris mourned her loss deeply. SI:7 reported that Nathanos raised her and Sira Moonwarden himself, his first set of Dark Rangers, instead of Sylvanas.

_Perhaps she resents him for overstepping?_

To Jaina's surprise, Nathanos pushes back. "Delaryn knows the terrain in Mulgore better than Anya. She knows Tyrande and may provide some insight into her reasoning."

Sylvanas turns her eyes away from him, staring at the door. "Anya may consult with Summermoon before leaving, but she will go alone and invisible. She will report her findings and return here within an hour. If she does not return for any reason, we will march on Thunder Bluff to find her."

Jaina's stomach sinks again, her fingers itch to make a portal to Stormwind. Baine's letter said he'd informed both Anduin and Shandris of this latebreaking information, but Anduin couldn't possibly know what Sylvanas and Nathanos planned. Something suspicious prickles in the back of her mind, aimed, for once, at someone other than Sylvanas. There are unspoken words in Baine's letter, details he hasn't yet shared with his own Warchief.

Nathanos bows at her order. "As you say, Dark Lady. I recommend we summon the Horde leaders and make preparations to attack."

Jaina wheels on him in silent fury. The mobilization of an _any_ army to attack Tyrande Whisperwind would be a threat to the Unification Treatise, whether it lacks her signature or not. There are far too many people in Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms loyal to Tyrande's rule to risk it. Every passing hour more people side with the Loyalists against Sylvanas and her treaty for her hand in the massacre of Teldrassil.

Jaina clenches the warding papers in her fist and turns back to Sylvanas, robes grazing her ankles. The Warchief leans to the other side of her throne, shifting in discomfort. Jaina says nothing, but its clear Sylvanas and Nathanos both understand her sentiment by the way they tense in return, him defensively, her guiltily.

"Pending the results of Anya's report, we shall," Sylvanas says. "Until then, I will not jeopardize the peace without gathering more information. Now go. Ready the mages and bring me Anya."

Nathanos dips his head, only stopping his stride when Jaina says, "I can portal her more accurately than your mages. Send her here."

The words leave her mouth more quickly and easily than they should, as if her tongue has been loosened by drink or sickness. She shouldn't be offering her services to the Horde without Anduin's knowledge, especially if he hasn't been informed of Baine's letter. But it's too late now; she's made her offer.

"Very well," Sylvanas says. Nathanos steps away as quickly as he came, marching with all the purpose of a soldier. When the door closes behind him, she asks, "What do you make of this letter, Lord Admiral?"

_Back to formalities then._ The notion makes Jaina feel hollow, the same echoing sensation she felt when Sylvanas said she would never raise her. The thought came as a shock, a consideration she hadn't fully vetted, rushing in headlong into their conversation. In retrospect, it is a great mercy that Sylvanas would let her die instead. The world does not need another Lich.

But there is a sensitivity in Sylvanas' tone that has been previously absent. A sliver of trepidation that runs through the dual-voice like a crack in stonework, present even before she drained the fox dry. It has shaded her since that moment in the study, as if she walks on eggshells in Jaina's presence.

Jaina wonders if she should be offended that she's treating her like a weakling, a porcelain doll that could shatter at the first impact. Perhaps Sylvanas has simply forgotten that mortals are... mortal, and she doesn't know how to behave around them. The chasm of their differences grows wider by the minute. Jaina's mouth twists into a frown.

"Baine isn't saying something. How did he find Tyrande? He does not explain Malfurion's absence or Maiev's presence, and neglected to say who poisoned her, or with what. Poisoned wounds are easily cured by healers. How is Maiev so grievously injured?"

Sylvanas purses her lips. "There are the old ways. They are outlawed."

The Warchief crosses her arms, a barricade from Jaina's questions and answers, as if she wants to protect herself. She looks distinctly uncomfortable with the whole situation, an understandable reaction given the contents of Baine's letter, and the sordid history Sylvanas has with the night elves. But Jaina can't quell the feeling that she's missing something to this riddle.

"Why would Bloodhoof use illegal poisons?"

" _He_ wouldn't," Sylvanas replies. The implication hangs between them until Jaina tilts up her chin, increasingly frustrated. Sylvanas raises a finger. "I make no accusations, but share your questions about the origin and intention of this poison. I question, too, why Stormrage is absent." 

Jaina shifts her weight. She suspects she knows why Malfurion isn't with his wife. Shandris had all but told her in the briefest of embraces in Dalaran, before her official report to the Alliance. Jaina knows well the look of a daughter without her father. Malfurion is a gentle soul, and his wife's rampage is anything but. Jaina cannot fault her, cannot blame her.

She loves Tyrande Whisperwind, and remembers the power of the Focusing Iris and the wall of water at her back, the certainty that revenge would bring her peace. But it never does. And her thoughts about Malfurion are suspicions, not facts, so she says nothing.

"I will," Sylvanas begins, then pauses as if she's considering her turn of phrase, " _rely_ on you to inform King Wrynn of my decision to send a scout. You can both rest assured that I will report our findings."

Before Jaina can respond, the doors to the Throne Room reopen, and Anya strides through, a dusting of snow on her hood and shoulders. She'd been on outside rounds again. Jaina catches a glimpse of an extremely tall Dark Ranger, an undead night elf, dreamily looking into the room with a soft, distracted expression. The woman is lithe and still, with none of Anya's speed and determination.

_Delaryn Summermoon._

Nathanos waits in the hall with her, quickly closing the door behind Anya. Jaina doesn't miss the way Sylvanas flinches at the sight of the night elf, as if recoiling from a gruesome wound. She reeks of avoidance and culpability, and more pieces of Teldrassil's tragedy click together in Jaina's mind. She cannot pretend she fully understands the dynamic, but she knows in an instant that, to Sylvanas, Delaryn Summermoon is a Ranger in name only.

Anya repeats back her orders after a cursory bow, clearly understanding that time is of the essence. They are exactly as Sylvanas said, nothing was lost in translation. Her red eyes glance from Jaina to the fox remains on the floor for the briefest instant. Anya misses very little.

Then the Warchief says, "Come here." Anya dutifully obeys, climbing up the stairs to the throne. Sylvanas rises as she approaches, voice low and quiet, barely loud enough for Jaina to hear. She stands close to Anya, as if she has a secret to tell her.

"You have one hour, then I expect you back here. If you find Thunder Bluff leveled, do not delay. Return at once. If you find Tyrande Whisperwind, do not delay. Return at once. You are, under no circumstances, to drop invisibility."

"Yes, Dark Lady."

Sylvanas' face is tense with concern, more than Jaina has ever seen before. It looks as though she wants to reach out and embrace Anya, but resists the urge with a hard, rigid spine and military discipline. There is a furious bonfire behind her red eyes, glowing with fear and rage and a depth of emotion she is trying to ban from her heart, but Jaina sees it. The fox has made her weaker-- _no, more pliable. More alive._

"You will not engage Whisperwind or Shadowsong. Do you understand? Not for any reason."

"Yes, Dark Lady."

"The Lord Admiral will portal you to Thunder Bluff. Your hour will begin as soon as you step through." Both elves turn to look at her, motionless and expecting.

Jaina begins the spell with a wave of her arms, magic rippling through the air. A solid grasp of geography is 90% of finessing a portal, but familiarity is the rest. Jaina has seen Thunder Bluff firsthand, and quietly thanks herself for her past plotting, second nature for a mage at war. Everywhere she traveled she scoped out portal anchor locations, hidden walls, zones with good cover. The Orgrimmar mages couldn't hope to match her power, experience, or spatial awareness.

The portal bursts to life, blue and pulsing. Anya descends the stairs gracefully, moving to her new target with renewed focus. 

Just before the Ranger-Captain enters the portal, Sylvanas says, "Anya, return safely." Her voice is clipped, as if she regretted saying it the moment the phrase escaped her mouth.

Anya turns back, searching her face, momentarily surprised at either her tone or the order itself. "Yes... Dark Lady," she says. Then with a snap of her cloak she disappears through the portal. It shimmers down to a fixed point, disappearing into nothingness.

Jaina feels her pass through safely to Mulgore, nestled in the shadow of the Stonetalon Mountains. Far south of the Ashenvale Forest, separated by the harsh landscape of the Barrens. It is as far from Lor'danel as Orgrimmar is. Jaina considers this distance in earnest now that more pressing matters have been handled: it does not make sense that Baine Bloodhoof encountered Tyrande Whisperwind in some serendipitous run-in, no matter what his letter implied.

"How did Baine Bloodhoof find Tyrande?" Jaina asks, her voice lowering. She feels herself brace for the answer, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Sylvanas looks down at her from the pedestal of her throne, grim and haughty. None of her prior discomfort is there, only stern resolution. She says, "He was sent to find her."

Jaina feels a novel sensation of something festering inside her, food left out to spoil. She readies herself for more pain, disapproval, _disappointment_. She is so very tired of losing.

"That's suicide," Jaina says hoarsely. "She could've killed him."

Sylvanas' ears lower like a cornered beast's. "Your King sent my sister to find her too. This is no different."

Jaina ignores the question of how Sylvanas came to know that information, and the sudden admission that she has an elder sister at all. She grits her teeth. "That's completely different. Alleria went to help Shandris, as allies of Tyrande. Shandris is her _daughter_. Baine is of the Horde, and you know better than to make faulty comparisons with me."

Sylvanas stands in still consideration for a moment, emotionless and imposing, her armor a wall of skulls doused the purple of drying blood. When she opens her mouth to speak her voice is mechanical, but at least this time she doesn't lie. "He betrayed me, and brought a valuable prisoner to the Alliance. I sent him to capture Whisperwind, or die trying."

The silence between them is suffocating. Jaina's mind processes her words like the crack of a whip and this time, blessedly, she does not feel the urge to cry. The floor has dropped out from beneath her; she is falling, grasping at cold anger to keep herself upright. She remembers Derek's pallid face and the way he wept, confused and terrified, when she spoke to him of his raising. The loneliness, the chill of it, the rebirth a shock to his system. She remembers Baine's face all full of apology and shame.

This is the same as every race she's ever run, where she trips at the finish line.

"You sent Baine to die because he brought Derek back to me?"

Magic vents off of her like steam from an over-pressured pipe. She feels herself shaking, trembling. She feels utterly betrayed by the brief moment of calm they shared. It meant nothing. It was a lie.

"Yes," says Sylvanas.

Jaina exhales a labored breath. Betrayed by her own hope and optimism again, the crushing reality of the situation strikes like a tidal wave: all-swallowing, all-encompassing. Jaina never learns. Her buoyancy, her resilience propels her forward into the next challenge, into the next _need_ , and she can never seem to see the cliff waiting on the other side. So she falls like a tumbling stone back into her own resignation and darkness, a pit where only Sylvanas can see her, bright red eyes looming over her like bloody stars.

Jaina opens a portal for Stormwind in brittle silence, and steps through without another word.

She is a fool for believing it would get better.

* * *

_These plateaus would have been a real bitch to climb,_ Anya decides, thankful that Jaina had been so precise in her portal placement.

Her third trip through a Proudmoore portal was more enjoyable than the first or second. She eyes the canyon below, cloaked safely and invisibly near the elevator on the Hunter Rise. The Orgrimmar mages would have dropped her at the bottom, forcing her to wait for an elevator, sneak beside the other travelers, and hope no one bumped into her on the way up. It would have been safer to climb, though significantly more time-consuming on her one-hour clock.

Tauren pass around her, shamans and warriors with their heads on swivel, obviously waiting for something. She gingerly walks across the bridge to the Middle Rise, icy wind catching her hood and cape, having to get creative with her movement only once as a large tauren man passes her, arms full of crates. She slips off the side of the bridge, dangling from the planks by her fingertips over the gaping canyon below, until he passes by. She quietly pulls herself back up, eyes scanning ahead.

_More good news,_ she thinks. _Thunder Bluff isn't completely razed._

She passes through the crowd, all moving about their afternoon with none of the excitement or anticipation that comes from having a foreign dignitary in their midst, especially an ancient, famous member of the Alliance like Tyrande Whisperwind. Anya gets the distinct impression that she isn't here yet, and neither is Baine Bloodhoof.

_Why would the High Chieftain travel on foot?_

People pass around her, warm and living and chaotic, and a portion of her mind begins to daydream as she watches. This is something they train Rangers to do on long treks through the forest: split their attentions in half to keep their perceptions sharp but their minds entertained. Elves are nothing without their entertainment.

First, she thinks about Taelia visiting Orgrimmar, and how beautifully she handled herself with the Dark Rangers. She was playful and totally willing to put up with their antics, and never tried to escape the inevitability of her new outfit the way Nathanos did. She didn't have to be hog-tied either.

Taelia smiles all the time and has a pretty, lilting accent. Anya finds her presence refreshing; she likes being able to hear her breathe, and she likes how bashful Taelia became when it was time for her to change back into her own armor. Anya left the room with a smile of her own, giving Taelia all the privacy she didn't get earlier. Taelia's tall, muscular body was magnificent in too-small Ranger leathers, and it took all of her willpower not to ogle her outright, half because she wouldn't dare disrespect the human, and half because her sisters would never let her hear the end of it.

_What's the harm? They're already having a grand time poking fun at us._ _It's worth it._

She keeps moving through the Middle Rise, past vegetable vendors and tauren children playing with jacks, and she wishes she had more time to wander and sight-see. She never sees children anymore, except for a brief acknowledgement from Liadrin Sunthread's fearless ward. The Rangers all agreed that the blood-elf child was highly amusing in her blatant lack of concern.

If Cyndia was being honest with herself, she would have admitted to the ache of longing that crept across her face when she saw Salandria, the yearning so obvious that even Sylvanas noticed it. Anya watched as Marrah took her hand upon their return to Orgrimmar, but no one said anything. The Forsaken couldn't bear children.

Loralen used to take her people-watching and make up stories about those who passed them by, most of them never noticing the two elves on the gilded bench giggling as they whispered into each other's ears.

But those days were gone. The world may have signed a peace treaty into existence, but the dangers were still plentiful and Anya has a job to do. A dangerous one, one that Sylvanas herself worried about, given her abrupt concern at her leaving. She thought for a brief instant that her old friend would embrace her like they used to when saying farewell, but the Dark Lady stood back, allowing only her eyes to convey her attachment.

_Still, that's far more than usual. This situation must have disturbed her to her core. And she ate that fox..._

Anya sees tendrils of campfire smoke wafting over the Spirit Rise, far more than she expected, as she slips past an antlered woman skinning a deer. Thus far, she has nothing valuable to report beyond a normal day in Thunder Bluff, busy but safe, and clearly lacking in one Tyrande Whisperwind. She crests a small hill on the edge of the Middle Rise, approaching another rope bridge.

Anya gasps.

Night elves swarm the Spirit Rise, hundreds of refugees milling about with undead and trolls and tauren and orcs, tending children and stirring stews and cleaning tents. The space is teeming with life: dirty, crowded, tenuous life, a shock to her eyes and mind. The reports she'd read spoke of many kaldorei refugees in Stormwind, another handful in Boralus and Ironforge, and the scattered few that remained in the north with Shandris Feathermoon in Lor'danel.

But she knows firsthand that there were no reports of night elves in Thunder Bluff. Baine Bloodhoof is keeping secrets.

Something in Anya fractures, relief she hasn't allowed herself to feel since the burning of Teldrassil. The thought that the loss of life was not so great as they believed, that the night elf mages somehow knew that Thunder Bluff was safe for them, that they could portal to the tauren capital and Baine Bloodhoof would find them a home the same way Anduin Wrynn did.

Delaryn Summermoon still drifts through Orgrimmar like a ghost, though now she sometimes sits with the trolls at lunch, and she told Anya that Malfurion, more than Tyrande, had been fond of Bloodhoof. She said Shandris respected him too, but Tyrande preferred isolationism more than her daughter. She was cordial with him when the opportunity arose, nothing more.

Her voice was so hollow when she spoke of her past, an empty grave, long since abandoned. Delaryn's dreamy eyes glossed over her, back to Nathanos, as if she wanted permission to leave.

Anya feels terrible guilt when she looks at Delaryn. The knowledge that she had a hand in the genocide of her people, in making a woman rooted in life become a servant of undeath. She sees it on Nathanos' face too, a touch of regret and a desire to protect the creature he made. He is almost fatherly with her in a way he never was with the other Rangers. But Sylvanas still cannot bear to look at her.

She can only imagine the suffering Sylvanas will endure when she encounters Tyrande. Because Anya knows deep in her unbeating heart that she _will_ encounter Tyrande-- they will all pay for what they've done to her people.

But here they are, some of them at least, so many more night elves than she thought, living and hiding and _integrating_ with the Horde.

Anya does not cry, she's a Ranger-Captain who has died and been reborn and still survives the horrors of this world, but she feels her lungs constrict. She clutches her Hearthstone in her fist, overcome by delight and dread, framing how best to break such news to the Dark Lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need you all to know that I spent the morning plotting, and this fic is going to be huge. This is not a problem, mind you, and your comments have been like sweet mana from heaven. I love you all.


	15. Valeera, Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence warning. :) 
> 
> Also, warning for the emotional violence I am going to inflict upon you. :))))

Stormwind has been a hornet's nest for twenty-four hours, full of diplomats and generals coming and going, Mathias Shaw and his spies traveling back and forth to Thunder Bluff but reporting nothing new, locked in a holding pattern until the Alliance and Horde come up with a plan. They haven't even reached out to the kaldorei refugees. They haven't informed their families.

Valeera puttered about in the shadows, watching as the Alliance leaders responded, agonizing over the right words to say, how much detail to provide to the public, if any. Moreso than the others, the Lord Admiral was decidedly out of sorts yesterday when she burst through the portal from Orgrimmar.

She gave no explanation of why, and Anduin chalked it up to the news that Tyrande and Bloodhoof were together, headed to Thunder Bluff. Or to the news that came an hour later from Valeera's favorite Dark Ranger, Anya, that there was a whole contingent of night elf refugees in the tauren capital. Valeera waved at her prettily and Anya scowled back as she delivered a message from her Dark Lady outlining everything the Horde knew. Yes, yes. Everything was as it should be to keep the peace for now.

They all agreed on one thing: Baine Bloodhoof kept many secrets.

_I always did like that bull._

Valeera delighted in it: the shock to the system, an even greater surprise and force of upheaval than the news of the treaty. It is, perhaps, as salacious as Jaina Proudmoore agreeing to marry the Banshee Queen, everyone's favorite topic of conversation in the taverns. But reality set in quickly, the ramifications evident in the silence of the throne room, in Vereesa Windrunner's wide, empty eyes and Anduin's long exhale. 

Her joy faded as Genn Greymane's eyes turned red, wet with shameful tears, face hidden from all but her.

His wife, Mia, was in Darnassus when it fell. Her back still aches from where the rubble of the Temple of Elune crushed her, spine broken and healed but never quite right again. She saved a night elf infant, clutched desperately to her breast, shielding the baby from fire and smoke and stone. The little orphan, Finel, stayed with Tess Greymane and Lorna Crowley now, under their protection. They never learned her given name.

Valeera turned her face away from the Worgen King. She was sick of people weeping.

She could count on Jaina to remain steadfast, to accept whatever disaster came their way, to face it head on. _Jaina only cries if she thinks no one's watching._

And she was right. Jaina lead the conversations, the planning. Her outreach to the Horde and Sylvanas as matter-of-factly and efficient as ever. They would wait until Baine's next update, keeping a close eye on Thunder Bluff from afar, but let him take the lead. She said outright that she agreed with his choice not to inform the Alliance of the refugees, given his precarious position taking in their civilians at all.

Then she suggested a census of the night elves, a registry, to unify the lost families when the time came. Valeera nodded appreciatively at the thought, everyone did, and she wondered how they'd managed to wage a war this long being so fucking disorganized. Only Jaina Proudmoore seemed capable of ironing out the nitty-gritty details.

_Should've put her in charge._

Now, the day before the peer meeting, Anduin gets a caller. He deems it important enough to suspend his emergency meetings and endless reports, and dismisses his entire retinue, Genn and Jaina included, to allow for some privacy.

He dismisses Valeera as well, but she thinks that's a stupid idea, so she dismisses his dismissing, loitering invisibly near the sofa as Anduin sifts through his papers. The young king talks to himself and pushes back blonde bangs, as he often does when he feels nervous. Valeera isn't sure why he asked Jaina to leave if he needed someone to talk politics, though he probably assumed she needed a break, as thoughtful as he is.

But Valeera is harder to fool than her innocent king, and she watched Jaina worry at her lip, mouth curling into a sneer when the conversation veered away from her. Lost in thought, certainly, but no doubt about a subject that hit closer to home than the shock of the night elves. There was an agitation to her that Valeera hadn't seen before, a coiled fury that leaked floral mana from her body in waves. Jaina's magic pulsed frequently when she was upset, perhaps another side effect of Theramore: an emotional twin to the physical response of her ghostly white hair.

Valeera didn't ask her what happened; Jaina wouldn't have answered anyway. She would have to meander back to Boralus to return her books eventually, and would ask her then, when Jaina seemed more herself: out of the public eye, easier going, more willing to talk. They are all that way, the figureheads.

Today, Valeera half expects Baine Bloodhoof himself to walk through the portal in Anduin's sitting room. But no, to her amazement it is not the High Chieftain, but an absolute surprise, a guest they've never hosted alone before. Liadrin Sunthread strides through, shield and sword gleaming red, a deep scowl etched into her firm jaw.

"Welcome, Lady Liadrin," Anduin smiles, extending his hand. "I am thrilled to have you visit Stormwind, and look forward to writing the wedding ceremony with you. I'm honored that Jaina and Sylvanas requested us both." Liadrin blinks at him, emotionless.

Valeera smirks. _Oh boy._

Anduin says nothing about the elephant in the room-- no doubt Liadrin knows about the night elves too-- and he continues, "If there's anything I can do to make your visit more comfortable, let me know and I will see it done."

After another pause she shakes his extended hand, squeezing it firmly, and Valeera knows two things immediately: this woman, with every fiber of her being, does _not_ want to be in Stormwind, and she would never be won over by Anduin's boyish charms and friendly smile. The Blood Matriach's face is a iron mask, obviously unimpressed with his courteous small talk. She hands him several pieces of paper.

"I have a draft written," she says flatly.

He awkwardly clears his throat, taking the papers. "Oh, thank you."

Valeera's face opens into a wide smile. _Delightful. She hates him._

As protective as she is over Anduin, Valeera doesn't read violence on Liadrin's body-- at least not more than usual for a general of her esteem-- but her harshness is unparalleled. Even Sylvanas Windrunner plays at social niceties when she needs to. She can read in Anduin's flattened mouth that he has no concept of how to handle her blatant disinterest in his politeness.

Valeera wants to laugh, a giggle forms in her chest. This whole thing is already hilarious, starting with the premise: these two are writing wedding vows for Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner. Liadrin stands with her arms crossed, green eyes glowering at the king as he reads.

Valeera comes closer, the tingle of seeing another blood elf up close buzzes against her skin. She is far removed from her homeland and their customs, though she likes the way they hold themselves so rebelliously, spitting in the face of anyone who would deny their freedoms. Once in the days of the Crimson Ring, an orc told her that her Thalassian was accented like an ignorant human's, clunky and inelegant. She thought about it for days. His words really got under her skin, so when they next met in the Ring, she ripped his off.

"Ana alashal mal'o balon," she told him in her clunky, inelegant Thalassian, the flesh of his face a wet sheet in her hand. _Thank you for letting me know._

Valeera blinks. She isn't used to seeing a red-headed blood elf. Liadrin is pretty in a rough way. Like a crater from a star rock fallen to earth, the only sign of its bright beauty the devastation it leaves, remembered for generations. Her seriousness is a magnificent thing; she gives not an inch of leniency or playfulness.

_Oh my. I'm waxing poetic about this mean, mean woman._

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Anduin gestures to the sofa.

Liadrin, unmoving, stares at him. 

Soft as a whisper, Valeera exhales a silent laugh.

Then her world erupts in pain. Liadrin consecrates the ground, bright Light burning up through Valeera's feet, a searing so sharp she drops her invisibility and screams in shock. Liadrin springs forward, shoving Anduin away from them and into a side table, violently toppling a lamp as he falls. She spins, massive shield in hand, smashing it into Valeera's calf as she tries to step backwards, out of the burning circle, instead crashing down into it, legs swept out from beneath her, back scorching as it burns.

Valeera's hands fly to her mouth, suppressing another scream, and tears spring to life unbidden. She is in agony, and Liadrin gives her no time to breathe, straddling her waist, one hand on her throat and the other striking her cheekbone once, twice, head violently rocking against the ground. The skin of her cheek splits, warm blood spilling to the floor, and Liadrin raises her stained fist again, ready for a third strike.

Through the darkening curtains of a blackout, Valeera can see her teeth are bared in a frenzy. She wants to vomit.

Anduin, formal tunic torn by the shattered lamp, scrambles over to them on his hands and knees, catching the crook of Liadrin's elbow and pulling her back desperately. He shouts, "No!"

"What is this, Wrynn?" she bellows back. Her eyes never leave Valeera's face. She is unmoved by his pleas, hyperfocused on her target.

Valeera's left leg is broken; she's certain of it. She clamps down harder over her mouth, and quivers. It hurts so badly. Her feet, her leg, her back, her face. She's still burning. The shame is so great: being caught, the crying, the _weakness_.

She shallowly pants, lungs crushed by the weight of Liadrin and her armor, and finally loses consciousness, disgraced on the floor.

She wakes on the sofa to a throbbing headache, and the warmth of the Light flowing into her body, like sore muscles relishing a warm bath. It feels different this time, not just the soft raindrop patter of Anduin's healing, gentle until it becomes a storm, but something unyielding and persistent is there too, a waterfall.

Her legs lay across Liadrin Sunthread's lap, bare of her armor and boots, and Anduin kneels by her head, fingertips grazing the wounds of her face. Liadrin watches as she wakes, dispassionate and unsmiling, then turns back to her work.

Anduin addresses her softly, "Are you all right, Valeera?"

_No, Anduin,_ she thinks. _This woman just beat the shit out of me._

"I've been better," she says groggily. Her left eye is swelling shut.

"I'm sure you have," he says. His face darkens, somber and displeased, a shadow of Varian. "We will discuss this misstep later."

_Ugh, shit. Of course we will._

"All right," she says.

The sitting room is a disaster: blood and shattered glass from where Anduin crawled through the remains of the lamp, another series of red droplets puddling near the table, and a gory line from here to there, where Valeera had obviously been partially dragged. Half of the rug is singed from Liadrin's consecration, blackened to ash. Her shield is still on the ground, laying close to the spot she used it to break Valeera's leg. The whole space reeks of burning flesh.

She must not have been unconscious for long. She feels a sense of lethargic surprise that they never called for help or healers. But their Light flows into her, and she supposes they wouldn't need either. The burns on her back feel mostly healed.

"King Wrynn, I wish to speak to her in private."

Anduin, shirtsleeves speckled in blood-- some his, some hers-- asks, "Are you comfortable with that, Valeera?"

She slowly nods, suddenly nervous. She hadn't counted on that, and realizes she is rather _un_ comfortable with the idea of being alone with Liadrin, a sensation she hasn't had in years, even with someone who attacked her. Valeera always controls the room when she's visible. She blames her injury for the nausea she feels as Anduin leaves. Liadrin is watching her.

Liadrin speaks in Thalassian, her deep voice even more resonant in her native tongue, "Why were you in here?"

Valeera immediately tenses, the drying blood beneath her left eye cracks in response. It takes her moment to understand what she asked.

Liadrin continues, less pressing this time, "Were you ordered to spy on me?"

"I... no." Her response is delayed again, a continuation of her fumbling embarrassment.

"Then why were you in here?"

_I thought it was funny, I'm not used to seeing blood elves, I'm nosy_.

Valeera swallows, feeling suddenly reprimanded despite the silence. She feels unsteady too because her mind works in Common, and she has to translate every thought. She settles for a portion of the truth, mumbling in her ugly Thalassian, "I... don't trust you alone with Anduin."

The Light never falters from Liadrin's palm, sinking deeply into the aching muscles of her patient's leg. Her eyes follow the ridge of Valeera's shin, perusing her handiwork after resetting the bone. Liadrin says, "You did not trust your king to make his own decision. He told me as much." Liadrin looks at her pointedly, unafraid, unamused.

Though she is propped up on plush pillows, almost entirely recovered, still tended by a powerful healer whose warm hands roam the length of her calf, Valeera feels pinned. Her back is against a wall and none of her flirtations and banter can protect her. She can't be naughty or deflect in Thalassian; she doesn't know how. This woman is immune to her tricks, her games. She wants to run but can't, so she leans into the pillows and flushes red.

"Anduin trusts too easily," she mutters.

Liadrin hums. "Were you trying to get caught?"

Her blood curdles in embarrassment. "No."

"Didn't think I would hear you?"

Liadrin's words are casual but firm; they still feel like an interrogation. Valeera wants to pout, but she's smart enough to read her audience: somehow she doubts that petulance would go over well on a woman like her. She keeps her mouth shut, grateful not to be speaking a tongue she barely remembers. Her heart pounds, mocking her. Her vision blurs.

"Just wanted to see another sin'dorei in Stormwind?"

Before Valeera can help herself, her eyebrows knit together mournfully, the face of a woman whose bluff has been called. She opens and closes her mouth, unsure of how to explain, unsure of why she'd even want to, then she mumbles, "I don't know."

Liadrin's hand is steady just below her knee. She doesn't move or stoke Valeera's soft skin, she just remains still and watches her.

In the past, she's felt the hands of strangers on her shoulders, her legs, her face-- the touch of people who say they want to help her recover, some unaware of their own predatory desires, and the lust in their voices when they speak to her. They always want more in return: time, affection, sex. They close the distance with gentle touches, and she smiles back knowing that they crave her, even if she doesn't share the sentiment. Valeera knows she is magnificently beautiful, and her gifts offer her so much leeway, so much _control_. She'd even tried to teach Jaina how it worked.

Valeera can stomach being used; she is using in return.

There are exceptions, _friends_ , like Anduin and Jaina and Aegwynn and Broll. Varian too, though she will never see him again. But most others would use her for her body, her beauty, her benefits. It's fine that they do. She doesn't care. She lets them.

This fearsome silence between them is somehow worse. This woman is not a friend, not a suitor, not a user. She is barely Anduin's ally. The propriety and distance, her unshakable questions, unnerve her. Liadrin's hand is no longer glowing, but Valeera feels a radiating heat from her palm, her fingers unassuming and still. She isn't pushing the boundaries of their contact, and Valeera is dizzy with it. This never happens when she is alone with someone, even the kind ones. They always try something, or their breath hitches in their throats, a meaningful blush on their cheeks.

"I apologize for hurting you so badly," Liadrin says, switching back to Common. "I thought you were an assassin until Anduin explained."

Valeera forces a smile onto her face. "Why would you assume another blood elf was coming to kill you?" she asks. Her smile fades immediately when Liadrin doesn't return it.

Long, orange hair tied back in a ponytail rests against her pauldron. Liadrin tilts her head just slightly before she says, "I didn't assume you were coming to kill me."

The memory is hazy, but she recalls the way Liadrin shoved Anduin as far from her as possible, keeping him from her own violent power and the perceived threat behind her. How clearly she hated being near him, working with him, but how selflessly she defended the High King anyway. _It is so strange what she did,_ thinks Valeera. _Not everyone in the Horde would do that, even for the peace... not everyone in the Alliance would either._

Abruptly, Liadrian says, "You're going to lay here while we finish our work. You have a concussion and need to stay awake." She takes Valeera's feet in her hands, rising from beneath them, and sets them onto the sofa. The cushions are warm where her body was.

_Concussion? Is that why I feel this way?_

Lady Liadrin reopens the sitting room door and Anduin enters with a bowl of water, soap, and a cloth, waving off the Marshals trying to follow him inside. "It's nothing. A little accident. Go back to your stations." They reluctantly obey, several of them staring aggressively at Liadrin. She holds their gazes, unblinking.

When the door closes, she says, "I'm content with her answers. She meant no harm."

Anduin sighs, visibly relieved, and says, "Thank you, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I assure you it was unexpected for all of us."

"Hmm," is the only answer she gives. "She's concussed. I want to keep her in here for monitoring until we finish."

The king kneels beside Valeera's head again, dipping the rag into the bowl and cleaning her bloodied cheek. He takes her face into his hands, his former anger gone, and says, "Yes, I think that's wise."

Liadrin doesn't touch her any more that afternoon, maintaining her space from an armchair across the room. Valeera finds herself wishing that she would. The way she watches her, eyes steely and completely absent of ulterior motives, is far more frightening. 

* * *

It has been many months since Sylvanas allowed herself the luxury of a bath, the introspection and warmth foreign to her body. She lowers herself into the massive brass tub, sized for an orc warlord, and sinks deeply into the near-simmering water. It doesn't burn.

She preferred the bathroom in the Undercity with its tiled tub built right into the floor, large enough to fit a stable full of horses. It was the height of opulence, excessive and extravagant, and one of the few locations that Sylvanas actively enjoyed. Orgrimmar's amenities are pleasant, but not the same. 

Her ashen hair floats around the base of her ears, her nose and mouth submerged in bubbles. She no longer needs to breathe, so she doesn't.

Her sisters used to make fun of her: _Minn'da will have a fit! Her daughter, the only Ranger who demands the finer things off the trail! Perfumes and silks, Sylvanas? You betray our legacy. We're supposed to be tough!_

But jest and jab all they wanted, when Sylvanas stole Alleria's fluffy pillows or Vereesa's favorite bracelets, it was an emergency: suddenly they couldn't be without either. Liadrin and Lirath were somehow immune, her because she wanted very little, and he because he just enjoyed watching his sisters play.

They all especially enjoyed stealing Alleria's pillows. She was off ranging more often than not, running from one adventure to the next, and would have to go on her own treasure hunt to rebuild her bed each time she returned to the Spire.

_Alleria's nesting_ , Sylvanas told Vereesa and Liadrin once, loud enough for her elder sister to hear. _Lady Sun simply_ cannot _sleep without 15 pillows of varying firmness. Simply. Can. Not._

Then Liadrin would always spill the beans of where the pillows were hidden, usually in Ann'da's study, or Vereesa would break under tickle torture. Once, when they were especially ambitious, Sylvanas enlisted the help of her cousins, and shipped away her sister's pillows to every Windrunner she could find. Even though Alleria spent all afternoon dragging her by the ear to retrieve each and every one, it was worth it.

She wonders if the Proudmoores played like that. Or Shandris Feathermoon with her friends in Darnassus. She envisions the burning, the smell of smoke, and wonders how many night elf families were destroyed. How many did Baine save and hide and lie about?

She lets the thoughts overcome her: they are inevitable now. She's still full of the fox, and drained by the news, yet she cannot bear to think another moment on Baine Bloodhoof and his treason, or the fact that he was right to commit it.

She touches the edge of Frostmourne's scar, low on her sternum. The deep, gaping wound never fully healed, and never would.

Baine's betrayal actively hurts her. It stings at something in her heart she didn't know still existed, a miserly thread of trust that's been snapped, and rightfully so. Baine is relentlessly capable of doing the right thing, like Wrynn, like Thrall, like fucking _Jaina_ , and he holds a mirror up to all of her inadequacies. Her madness. Red eyes reflect off the water's surface.

Her hands are tied, like so many other moments in her life. The center of control has shifted and, despite her power, Sylvanas is left alone to follow it or be spurned. She cannot raise a hand against him, and finds she doesn't want to. Sylvanas wants it all to go away, to finally be washed clean of her many, many mistakes. Her sins. She doesn't want to eat again, neither foxes nor jackrabbits nor deer, if it means she has to feel this way.

But she would have to face them all at the peer meeting in Dalaran. She would have to be the Warchief with all her titles and power, and her unflappable mask. Jaina has not spoken to her in two days, no letters of preparation, no more plans for warding Grommash Hold. Sylvanas knows she will have to keep eating, and accept the hurting in stride.

Her unpredictable emotions take a toll, she knows and hates it, but the worst victim always seemed to be the Rangers with their concern, slinking through shadows with ducked heads. How Anya, her rock-steady Captain, had flinched at her response to the news, the tinge of a banshee's wail present enough to truly frighten her. Even Nathanos has been avoiding her.

_My friends._

On top of everything, fear pierces the veil of her loneliness. She cannot predict Tyrande; nothing of her movement is logical or normal, as if someone else controls her. Sylvanas remembers when she too was guided by strings, nothing but Arthas' puppet, twisted against her will. The absolute violation of her soul was a simple task for him. He drained her as easily as she drained the beasts of Durotar.

She wonders if Delaryn Summermoon feels used that way. Like her High Priestess, like her Dark Lady.

_Should I kill Baine? Thank him? Try him for treason? Banish those who kept his secret and protected the night elves from me? I will be cast down. I deserve to be cast down._

Sylvanas has no one to ask. The return of her conscience is a constant irritation. No one trusts her, and she can't blame them. Her allies slip away like her friends, like her family. There isn't a plot anymore, no plan to guide her. She doesn't have the answers.

She sent the drained Boralus fox to her tanners, something she's never done before, because she worried the carcass would rot if left untended. While several of the Rangers have field dressed her previous kills, they'd never tried to preserve the pelt for leatherwork. The tanners, wisely, didn't ask for an explanation.

The fox skin sits on her dresser in a folded pile. Across the bedroom her sapphire necklace rests on the bedside table, still separate from the other two inside the drawer. The untidiness of their tangled chains bothers her tremendously. She could unravel them later tonight, after she gathered her thoughts on Dalaran.

It is only midnight; the night is young, and she needs no sleep. Perhaps she should go to Thunder Bluff, simply wait for Tyrande's righteous fury to cut her down. More people love the High Priestess than the Banshee Queen. The Loyalists are a testament to that.

She sinks under the surface. It really is a shame she can't drown.

Suddenly, a flash of blue appears through the bathroom door, ghosting over the water. Faint with distance and separation, it fades as quickly as it came. The portal in the living room has been activated.

Sylvanas' ears prick up as she resurfaces, her face glowering, but she stays in the tub and listens. None of the doors inside the Warchief's suite are closed-- she's never had the need to close them-- and she can hear steady footsteps moving about her chambers. Her whole body tenses.

From the bedroom she hears Jaina Proudmoore's voice. "Sylvanas?"

Sylvanas sinks lower in the water, the tips of her ears pinned back so low they tickle the surface. _Why is she here?_ She can smell the faintest hint of Jaina's magic wafting through the bathroom, mixing with the fragrance of the bath oils.

"Are you in here?" her voice grows louder. Jaina appears in the open door, blue eyes wide with the sight before her. She quickly looks away, gaze trained to the ceiling, braid dragging across her collarbone. "You could have said something."

Sylvanas emerges, just enough that the top of Frostmourne's scar remains under water, and only her shoulders are visible. With an air of forced nonchalance, she says, "I wasn't expecting midnight visitors, Proudmoore."

Jaina crosses her arms. "Well, forgive my interruption. We needed to talk before tomorrow," she shakes her head, "later today."

"Six hours from now," Sylvanas adds and Jaina scowls at her, eyes trailing over her naked skin for only a moment.

Sylvanas raises a dripping arm, and points to a wooden cabinet across the room, "Towel."

Jaina sneers, "Get it yourself." She turns back into the bedroom and closes the door behind her.

After a moment of stillness, Sylvanas rises from the bathtub, draining it, and retrieves a plush, red towel from the cabinet. She dries herself slowly, prolonging her exit. With a growing frown, she realizes that she doesn't have pajamas or a robe, or anything most people might sleep in. She doesn't allow herself to sleep, and spends most of her waking time in her armor, or occasionally underclothes. Her shoulders hunch. She doesn't have a choice.

With the towel wrapped around her torso, she steps into the bedroom. The room is cooler than the bathroom, and her wet hair plasters against her back, growing colder by the minute. Jaina isn't in the bedroom, and the door to the living room is closed.

Sylvanas peers around, then goes into her closet and dresses in her most formal armor. She planned to wear it for the meeting anyway. She pulls her hair up into a wet bun-- the tangles will straighten out as soon as she lets it down again, perhaps the only perk of having undead banshee hair-- and leaves her silken hood down to keep it dry. She retrieves her necklace from the bedside table, scowling at the thought that Jaina probably saw it laying out in the open, and tucks it under her breastplate. She hopes against hope that the mage wouldn't ask about it.

After a final appraisal in the mirror, she steps into the dark living room where Jaina Proudmoore sits delicately on a chair, hands in her lap. A heavy bag rests on the floor beside her.

"Why are you here?" Sylvanas asks. A part of her worries that they'll have to discuss Derek or Tyrande, and she can't decide which is worse for her peace of mind right now. Her presence alone, her _scent_ , is enough to unsettle her.

Jaina eyes her, something like surprise mingling with her distaste. Sylvanas doesn't care to translate the look.

"For alignment. It's essential that we walk in step tomorrow, especially in the face our leadership." She looks away. "Those in the Alliance who know about... Thunder Bluff have been sworn to secrecy. We're all waiting for Baine's next report."

Sylvanas' stomach twists. She says nothing.

"But, if nothing else, we should arrive together tomorrow. We should be _seen_ arriving together tomorrow. There will be reporters, photographers, historians. It is essential that we give the impression we're a united front."

Sylvanas crosses her arms. "Fine." She hates the press.

A pause lingers between them, as if Jaina wants to say something. She shifts her weight on the chair. "I apologize for arriving unannounced."

Red eyes flicker to her face. Her words seem genuine, and Sylvanas feels a deep relief that she isn't continuing the conversation about Bloodhoof and her brother tonight. She says, "I should have expected it. Apparently, neither one of us sleeps."

The faintest of smiles passes Jaina's face, there and gone in an instant. "I do sleep. Though probably not enough."

"Certainly not enough," Sylvanas amends.

"Yes," she says. "With your permission, I will spend the night here and portal us to Dalaran in the morning, so we can walk in together. I can bring anyone you intended to have your mages send."

Somehow, Sylvanas is surprised. She swallows thickly. She assumed Jaina would return to Boralus, then back to Orgrimmar in the morning.

"Fine." Her mouth twitches. "There will be talk. We're not married yet."

Jaina rises from the chair, hoisting the bag over her shoulder. "Only the old fashioned ones. And that's sort of the idea, isn't it? Give them all something to talk about. They need to see us together, at least maintaining the _illusion_ of functionality."

Sylvanas scoffs, "A tall order for me."

She tightly closes her lips, betrayed by her emotions and sharp tongue. She didn't need to give Jaina Proudmoore more fodder to psychoanalyze her; eating in front of her was more than enough. Even in the darkness, she can see the Lord Admiral's eyes roaming her face, invasive but reserved, as if pressing an attack while fearful of leaving her own defenses unguarded.

"Me too," murmurs Jaina.

Sylvanas turns away in silence. She returns to the bedroom, crouching rigidly at the fireplace. She lights the kindling with a match from the mantle, saying, "The bedroom's yours. I won't need it."

Once she's satisfied with the growing fire, she retrieves her things from the study, the reports and speeches she'd been preparing for tomorrow, and sets them on the table in the living room. It's safer for her to be out here in the event Jaina needs the bathroom or study. She could also be certain the Lord Admiral wouldn't go exploring the Hold, short of using a highly conspicuous portal.

With a final glance at her face as she passes through the doorframe, Jaina says, "Thank you." The door closes with a click.

For several hours, Sylvanas tries to focus on her work and ignore the signs of life coming from inside her bedroom: the white light of the bedside lamp, the snap of buttons when Jaina undresses, the rustle of turning pages. She reads the farming subsidy reports unenthusiastically, then paces the room. Eventually, the light inside goes off, and Jaina is done reading.

Sylvanas sits, and tries to work again. Several times in the night Jaina mutters in her sleep, fitfully twisting in the purple sheets. It draws Sylvanas' attention every time, a terrible distraction. Near dawn, there is a tiny gasp that sets her mind on edge, then the creak of the mattress tells her that Jaina is awake. She woke with a start, having hardly slept three hours.

Sylvanas frowns; she knows what waking from a nightmare sounds like.

She opens the door to the staircase of Grommash Hold where Little Clea, the shortest of all of her Rangers, stands at attention outside. She listens intently to her orders and, to Sylvanas' great pleasure, she doesn't press her for answers but simply trots down the stairs to the kitchen. When the Dark Ranger returns, she carries a tray of breakfast foods: a bagel and lox with cream cheese and chives, and a cup of coffee, black with two sugars.

"Tell the others that the Lord Admiral will be escorting us to Dalaran. The mages needn't worry themselves."

Clea's eyes flick past her to the bedroom door, and her eyebrows raise conspiratorially. But she says, "Yes, Dark Lady."

_Thank the gods it wasn't Marrah's shift today,_ Sylvanas thinks, taking the tray from the curious elf _._ She sets it on the low table in the center of the room, and waits.

When Jaina finally emerges, she is dressed in her formal robes and armor, all imposing in dark navy and gleaming gold, seemingly as exhausted as ever. They trade rooms without a word, except when Sylvanas gestures at the tray and says, "Your breakfast." She walks to the bathroom mirror before Jaina can answer, and begins to brush out her hair, still slightly damp.

On passing through the bedroom, she doesn't miss that Jaina made the bed and left her pajamas in a folded pile on the dresser, just beside the fox pelt. _I suppose she noticed that too. The Lord Admiral is nothing if not fastidious._

Sylvanas pulls up her hood, sliding her ears through the cloth. The fabric is lovely, finely crafted, but less comfortable than her normal attire. The needlework around the ear holes itches just slightly. Still, the armor is resplendent and bright, the deep purples and browns a fine complement to the silver inlay. But Sylvanas turns away sharply; she does not enjoy looking at herself in the mirror.

In the living room Jaina sits, blotting at her lips with a napkin. "Thank you for the food. It was delicious." She ate her bagel and salmon, and drank the whole mug of coffee. Sylvanas would request a carafe next time.

_At least I can do that right._

"You're welcome."

They trade places again, careful not to bump into one another as they pass, Jaina off to brush her teeth and pin down the stray hairs of her braid, Sylvanas gathering up her papers. The suite feels small with both of them inside it. Their routines are mutually interrupted.

When she's finished, Jaina asks, "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Sylvanas replies. She bends her elbow to Jaina, who takes it. They walk arm-in-arm out of the Warchief's suite, prepared to gather their retinue for Dalaran.

* * *

EDIT: Look at this incredible fanart by [@LordeoftheHymns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordeOfTheHymns/profile)!!!!! It's Tubvanas and it's amazing!!!!! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally couldn't stop writing this chapter and it's out of control (2000+ words more than usual). Enjoy this coronavirus gift, and stay safe out there!


	16. Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added chapter titles according to the POV characters in them. Hope you like it!
> 
> Y'all, I had to make up more surnames. Bear with me. Also I'm not listing every peer pairing in the WoW lore because it would take me 3000 years.

Jaina hadn't expected breakfast. She hadn't expected to be able to fall asleep at all in Sylvanas' bed, cold sheets a shock against her legs, bare beneath her nightgown. At least there was a fire, and the bed eventually warmed to Jaina's temperature as she read, trying to ignore the sounds of shuffling papers on the other side of the door. Luckily exhaustion won out over discomfort in the end, and her fantasy book, _The Dragonfly Knight_ \-- a personal favorite she hadn't made time to reread since her academy years-- could not hold her attention. The few hours of rest she got were better than nothing and, to her great relief, Sylvanas had left her entirely to her own devices in the room they would soon permanently share. She did not interrupt her once, or demand to override her privacy under the guise of their mutual safety. She gave her space, as her mother predicted she would.

"I imagine she won't pry, darling. We all know Sylvanas Windrunner is a being to be reckoned with on the battlefield, but you are a force of nature _everywhere_. I'm sure she'd rather let sleeping dragons lie," her mother said, sipping on a teacup full of whiskey, one of her few unmannerly habits. "Besides, now is the time to find out exactly how plausible it is to share a living space. Better now than after the wedding, when everyone will assume your plans are finalized and any changes will be doubly questioned. I'll not bore you with details, but trust that the public wants to know." 

Across the library, Tandred sat on the brown leather sofa and drank deeply from his mug of ale. "S'true," he muttered. "They're hardly curious about what world-wide peace could mean, but everyone's blathering on about how willingly my sister's warming the banshee's bed, or placing bets on who'll win in the inevitable fight."

Derek, who abstained from drinking but shared the sofa with his brother, said, "Uh, yes, well. I'd rather not talk about bed warming but I _have_ placed a wager on you, Jaina, so please win if it ever comes to blows."

"Forsaking the Forsaken Queen?" Tandred shoved him. "Excellent call. Jaina'd wipe the floor with her."

The night had been a strange one in Proudmoore Keep, but at least they'd all settled into the closest thing to normalcy this family would have for some time: Derek was undead, Tandred was home, Katherine had all of her children under the same roof again, and Jaina was marrying the Warchief of the Horde. Jaina smiled and sipped her own whiskey, a cocktail mixed with bitters, sugar, and orange peel. In town they called the drink a Mutineer and, while she didn't appreciate the title, the flavor couldn't be beaten. The situation before her, while exceedingly strange and new, felt a little bit like home.

"Thus far I've not warmed any beds, nor started any battles, so don't count on seeing that coin again," she said. _Well, the battles were short-lived. No one died._ "Though it sounds like mother may be encouraging me to go to Orgrimmar early."

Katherine shook her head, wispy grey strands falling out of her tight bun; it had been a long day for her. "I merely suggest you keep the optics of your situation in mind. I would never imply you do anything that makes you uncomfortable or unhappy, but the rumors about your marriage will be spread whether or not you have a hand in shaping them." 

Jaina didn't respond at the time, instead sipping her Mutineer and pondering the wisdom of her mother's words. So much of her own life she'd felt swept away by the the currents of more powerful people, but this time she could control it; she could make the world see what she wanted them to see. So she packed an overnight bag, and went to Orgrimmar.

And now Jaina's left arm rests in Sylvanas' right as the Violet Citadel ballroom fills with dignitaries and champions of renown, Alliance and Horde alike, grateful for the first time that the Warchief is beside her. In Sylvanas' shadow people don't swarm her so readily, asking for this and that, needing advice, favors, the luxury of her time.

The room is awkwardly split down the middle, Horde on her left, Allliance on her right, each full of pockets of hushed conversations. The factions are not overlapping at all, with the exception of Jaina and Sylvanas standing on a pedestal before a large purple button of gnomish make. Golden clockwork patterns swirl up the length of it, intricate and shining: Mekkatorque spared no expense with his design. To the side of the pedestal, a cushioned tray of enchanted silver balls is being distributed by tauren and dwarven soldiers, red bands for the Horde, blue bands for the Alliance. Behind them, a huge, floating brass board is empty, waiting to be filled with the randomly determined peer pairings.

The top of the board reads:

** Alliance -- Horde Unification Treatise Peer Pairings **

**1\. Jaina Proudmoore -- Sylvanas Windrunner**

The two of them stand beneath their names, waiting for the rest of the predetermined guests to arrive.

Far behind the loitering dignitaries sit a row full of photographers and scribes, all under close watch by Stormwind Marshals and Kor'kron Guard. Outside, Dark Rangers and the Silver Covenant patrol the rooftops of Dalaran, keeping as much an eye on each other as they do the people passing below. Khadgar and Thalyssra coordinated their mages and arcanists as ward sentries, prepared to contain and neutralize any number of threats. The Violet Citadel is a fortress with their combined might.

For a moment, Jaina feels awash with hope and pride. Azeroth is truly mighty when united.

More leaders file in from portals in the hallways, quickly joining their respective sides and eyeing the other mistrustfully. Despite the heightened tensions, no one wants to be the first to lash out. Instead they all just linger unhappily.

Only Taelia approaches Jaina and Sylvanas when she arrives with her mother and the Kul Tirans, briefly bowing to both of them as formality dictates. She greets them, "Lord Admiral. Warchief."

"Hello, Taelia."

"Fordragon," Sylvanas says. Her red eyes pass over Taelia quickly, returning to survey the growing crowd instead. 

Then, to Jaina's surprise, her mother follows her bodyguard up the dais stairs. As always, even in esteemed company, many eyes follow Katherine wherever she goes, but she moves with the perpetual grace of a woman who has more important things to do than bother with their gossip. Her regalia shines in the arcane lighting of Dalaran, bronze buttons and shoulder boards exuding power and authority as much as the way she holds herself. She is the First Mother of the Seas, having relinquished Admiralty back to her Jaina. She loathes that title too, says it makes her feel old, but she accepts it in stride.

Katherine takes Jaina's free hand with both of her own, black gloves sliding over her gauntlet.

_Please don't say anything about me spending the night in Orgrimmar. Please, please, please. It was your idea in the first place!_

"I am glad to see you well, my daughter. You look magnificent today," says Katherine with the hint of a smirk playing on her lips. Jaina heaves a sigh. Perhaps she doesn't give her mother enough credit. Before she can respond in turn, Katherine releases her hand, stepping to the side and addressing Sylvanas, "And you, my daughter-in-law."

Jaina's stomach clenches: she hadn't predicted her mother speaking with Sylvanas at all, much less with such blasé familiarity. Katherine had never referred to her that way before, never acknowledged their engagement with any sort of normalcy. The arm Jaina's holding tenses slightly, a coiling of hard muscles, but Sylvanas says nothing.

Katherine eyes her from head to toe, taking in her purple armor and rigid physicality. She says, "Most impressive."

Jaina's eyes flicker back and forth between them, desperately trying to keep her face emotionless. Almost everyone in the ornate room is watching them, some surreptitiously, others with a sense of giddy awe. Lurking near Lilian Voss, Nathanos frowns heavily. Jaina is learning that he's awful at hiding his emotions, which is perhaps why Sylvanas keeps him around. She can trust that grim face to be honest.

A small smile crosses Sylvanas, a subtle thing, but Jaina notes the twitch of her ears and tilt of her head, all little signs that she's pleased. "A high compliment coming from a woman as powerful and resplendent as you are, Lady Proudmoore. Though I'm afraid I pale in comparison to you two," she smoothly adds. "Placing me beside you is like asking me to outshine the stars in the sky."

At this, Jaina cannot contain herself. She blinks hard, staring up at Sylvanas in shock.

Katherine curls her lips, granting Sylvanas a small laugh. "You flatter me, Warchief. I would be honored to have you join us for dinner before the wedding, though our time grows short. It's high time you toured Boralus Harbor. The Lady Admiral must know her ships."

Sylvanas says, "I relish the opportunity. Name the time and I'll clear my schedule."

"Wonderful. I'll be in touch." The corners of Katherine's blue eyes crinkle. "Wish me luck, Jaina."

"I-- good luck, mother." Jaina sheepishly replies. She touches her mother's ironed collar with her fingertips, a seafaring tradition for good fortune, noting how Sylvanas' eyes follow the motion. She feels an unwelcome blush on her cheeks.

Taelia and Katherine take their places near Anduin, Genn, and Tess, and the crowd turns back to their prior conversations now that their entertainment is over.

Jaina smiles, speaking through gritted teeth, "Did you just flirt with my mother?"

"Mm," Sylvanas replies. "I was born and raised in elven high society. I would be a fool to turn down an invitation from Katherine Proudmoore, whether she meant it in jest or earnestness."

"Wise, though I believe she meant it all kindly. Mother isn't one to make empty promises or petty insults about appearances. But," Jaina turns to her, still smiling, "you did not answer my question."

Sylvanas smiles back, though she does not face her, only the side of one red eye visible beneath her hood. "She started it."

Jaina keeps her face bland: empty and happy. There are too many people watching them to betray her annoyance. "Yes, and I shall have words with her."

"Words of thanks, I hope. She did us a great favor. The whole world will want to know what was said, and want to learn how I so quickly garnered the support of both Lady Proudmoores."

Jaina suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, readjusting their interlinked arms. She mutters, "You know she wasn't kidding about knowing the ships."

"Then I shall study up on your fleet, Lord Admiral. I'd hate for her to think me a _landlubber_ , as you Kul Tirans say." 

"No one says that."

_Leave it to mother to turn Sylvanas Windrunner into a sailor. She really is something else._

Jaina isn't certain Derek has forgiven Katherine for Fate's End but, unlike Tandred, he knows when to bite his tongue. Before they'd all settle down yesterday evening with their respective drinks in hand, her mother had accepted a brutal tongue-lashing from her youngest son-- all swears, insults, and screaming-- for exiling her daughter to the Blighted Lands. Jaina tried to intervene but Tandred would hear none of it, and how could she blame him? She would have done the same in his stead. But how willingly Katherine accepted his vitriol, waiting until his blustery rage sizzled out and he flopped down on the sofa, face cherry red beneath his blonde beard. Of all of them, he most resembled their father.

Her mother took his hand, speaking softly, "I will bear the shame of betraying my own child for the rest of my life. But you may be certain that I will do everything I can to atone, each and every day, until the Tidemother claims my last breath."

Tandred's eyes welled with unfallen tears. He set his jaw and heaved a shaky exhale, "It was just so _fucking_ stupid."

Katherine smiled back gently, "Yes, _I_ was so fucking stupid. It will not happen again. I will defend you, all of you, always."

Then all the remaining Proudmoores gathered around him in an uncertain embrace, even Derek, still self-conscious of his cold, undead skin, but Jaina opened her arms to him and relief swept across his face. They held each other close for a moment, breaking when Tandred cleared his throat. He said, "So, Jaina. Mum tells me you're throwing yourself on a grenade and marrying Sylvanas fucking Windrunner."

"Stars above," breathed Derek. He'd heard too, though he hadn't broached the subject.

"Depths below," agreed Tandred. "I'm going to need a drink if we're really going to talk about this mess."

And even Jaina couldn't argue with that logic. Her family settled in, and began to speak in earnest for the rest of the evening.

Her attention returns to Dalaran as a heavy door on the Horde side of the room swings open. Vereesa Windrunner and two of her Silver Covenant Rangers slip inside. The red sea of Horde warriors parts for them as they pass in silence, making their way to the Alliance's half of the ballroom. Vereesa does not make eye contact with the blood elves around her, and Sylvanas pointedly looks away from the commotion, her mouth a flat line. Even Lor'themar steps to the side, pulling at his cape, as if Vereesa and her ilk did not exist at all, and he chose to move of his own volition. Only Liadrin Sunthread remains perfectly still, arms crossed, a rock in shifting waters. Her green eyes latch onto Vereesa as if she is a particularly ugly rat, and Jaina feels herself grow protective of her friend, a scowl forming on her lips.

Suddenly, Sylvanas' ears lower and her eyes narrow at something in the opposite corner of the meeting room. Jaina follows her gaze, grateful to tear her attention away from Liadrin's intense distaste.

The rippling darkness of a void portal swirls open in the hallway. Shandris Feathermoon and her sentinels step through, pitch blackness dripping off of their muscular forms. The Sentinel-General shines radiantly in her ceremonial Darnassian armor, elegant and powerful, shoulders square. She does not care that she has the full attention of the crowd, and ignores the flash of cameras around her.

The room tenses as she approaches the dais, her stride unhurried. She first nods at Jaina, then, with a clenched jaw, nods at Sylvanas. Jaina feels the Warchief strain against her armor again, her arm as hard and cool as stone, but she returns the nod with formal dignity. There is a long moment of something unspoken, as if they both search for a resolution, for words, but come up empty. The Sentinel-General turns away.

The room seems to exhale around them as Shandris takes her place, greeting Aysa Cloudsinger and her monks with far less formality. She soon finds her way to Vereesa, pulling her into an embrace that takes the high elf a moment to return, then speaks to her in a low voice. Vereesa nods and answers, blue eyes more focused than usual. Shandris was at Theramore too and, while they don't often share company, they do trust each other.

From a cluster of his paladins, Turalyon gloomily stares at Shandris and Vereesa. Jaina wonders if he's heard from his wife at all. She'll never ask, knowing their obvious struggles with his Light and her Void, but she has no concept of why they still feign companionship when they can't stand to be in each other's presence. They're not legally bound by a peace treaty.

At least Alleria seems to avoid her husband, literally running from him the last time they were both together in Dalaran. Vereesa never spoke of her eldest sister's marriage, only her appreciation of Arator, and Jaina certainly had no intention of asking Sylvanas. She wouldn't have details anyway.

Across the aisle, both Liadrin Sunthread and Thalyssra Eles watch the exchange as well. A tall arcanist woman whispers something into Thalyssra's ear, who shakes her head lightly, shoulders slouching. Liadrin eyes Shandris and Vereesa wolfishly, ignoring Lor'themar as he rests a hand on her arm.

_I shall have to watch them both with Vereesa,_ Jaina thinks. _Perhaps something happened in Suramar, or they still harbor a grudge. Or maybe they take issue with Shandris and her entrance. It was as much a statement that Alleria made that portal as it was for me to walk in on Sylvanas' arm. She still hasn't returned home, judging by Turalyon's reproachful expression._

Gelbin Mekkatorque walks up the dais and bows to them, wringing his hands. Noon is fast approaching.

"Lord Admiral, Warchief. Do you have any last minute questions about the pairing mechanism?" he asks. Jaina notes with pleasure that he addresses them both respectfully. "There are 118 balls, one for each of the afore-invited 120 guests, not including you two, naturally." He speaks rapidly, obviously nervous. "We'll have to do any additional pairings later, a bit less formally. I've spoken with the First Arcanist about some possible methods. She's quite clever, yes. Very. Or we could always leave it up to you and the High King to sort," he dips his head to Sylvanas.

"I'm sure other champions and erm... others might sign the treaty eventually. Pairings shall be determined later, maybe in a second wave? I was trying to keep it fair, you know. Only, erm, higher level leaders.... to each according to their station, I mean.

"And, speaking of, I didn't add titles to the board for readability. To save space, you know." He frowns at the floating bronze board. "Now that I think of it, perhaps I should have put the Horde peer first, as we're technically in Alliance territory. It's only fair. Hmm."

Sylvanas waves a hand, cutting him off, "I have reviewed your plans, High Tinker. They are satisfactory as presented."

The night prior, Jaina saw Sylvanas gather her speech notes, including multiple drafts and scratched-through revisions. She'd obviously put a great deal of time into it, more than Jaina had after Anduin asked her to speak on behalf of the Alliance, and she felt a tinge of embarrassment that perhaps Sylvanas was taking all of this quite seriously and she was the one slacking off. Or perhaps it was a continuation of what Valeera told her nearly a week ago: Sylvanas rehearses everything she wants to say.

It's not a criminal desire by any means, merely a cautious one. Though Jaina questions why she feels the need to plan her speeches so meticulously when she obviously shines in off-the-cuff repartee. The conversation with her mother was an unnerving example of her verbal sparring ability. Jaina herself as always thrived at winging it, as Tandred says, consistently thankful for Antonidas' oratory classes in Dalaran despite it being her least favorite subject.

Jaina saw many things in Orgrimmar the night prior, some of which she hadn't begun to fully process. The fox hide was a great surprise, one she took to be some sort of apology for sending Baine to die, or maybe Sylvanas really did plan on wooing Katherine Proudmoore behind her back. A nice fox hat might do the trick. Jaina smirks at her own foolishness, reliving the strange smoothness in Sylvanas' tone when she spoke to her mother, no hint of the underlying double voice. She wonders if that was how she used to behave when she was the Ranger-General, a flirt with a sharp wit and sharper tongue.

A far cry from the wet cat in the bathtub, ears pinned down like a cornered beast, only growing haughty enough to request a towel from her surprise visitor. Despite her arrogant demands, Sylvanas looked terribly vulnerable in the bath, as everyone does. Jaina could see the hint of fear in her eyes, the freckles on her shoulders, the tip of Frostmourne's scar between the curve of her breasts, and she looked away immediately. Even Sylvanas deserved that much; Jaina would have demanded the same.

She didn't ask about the fox pelt, or the sapphire necklace that resembled the ruby one Vereesa used to wear. She didn't feel it was right to pry after dropping in so unexpectedly, especially when it took her three Mutineers and a long conversation with Katherine to work up the courage to do so in the first place.

In fact, if Jaina is being honest with herself, she would be horrifically displeased to be interrupted without warning like that. She could give credit where credit was due: Sylvanas handled her presence well, all things considered. She didn't truthfully know how she would respond if the Warchief returned the favor, asking to sleep in her bedroom in the Keep. The thought alone makes her exceedingly edgy, not solely because Sylvanas doesn't need to sleep in the first place, but because sharing a bed with her seems too great a chasm to cross.

She supposes it might happen eventually in Orgrimmar. _Derek still enjoys sleeping. So does Calia._ Jaina would simply ignore her, reading until she was ready to sleep, however briefly. Or she could sleep on the couch, and give Sylvanas her bed back. _That's probably more appropriate._

But the nightmares give her pause. They haunt her every time she closes her eyes; some she remembers, some she doesn't. Last night she dreamed of Theramore's aftermath, of holding Vereesa as she sobbed, and trying to explain to the twins that their father was dead. Vereesa couldn't do it. Vereesa couldn't look at them, not with their red hair like Rhonin's and the light freckles they shared with their aunt.

Jaina held the boys too, and Arator when he returned to Stormwind, the mage he knew as a surrogate father now dead, disintegrated as if he never existed. She held the remains of Rhonin's family as the echoes of the mana bomb's fury coursed through her, electric burning in every nerve, her hair now sun-bleached white. She ached and trembled and thought of Pained and Kinndy and Rhonin, but she held them all together as much as she could, like sorry glue that wasn't quite strong enough to solidify.

She was the reason Rhonin died.

She casts the thought aside. Sylvanas and Mekkatorque are discussing when to begin, and she cannot afford to be distracted by her memories; not here.

The King of Gnomeregan is allayed, thoughtfully bobbing his head. "I believe that all the required guests have arrived and have been assigned a pairing mechanism. We are, erm, ready to begin at your discretion, erm." He pauses, eyeing them both, "My ladies."

"Thank you, Gelbin," Jaina says. "I believe it's time to begin then."

Sylvanas lowers her arm slowly, allowing Jaina to unhook herself from her elbow. "Carry on then, Lord Admiral," Sylvanas murmurs.

There is no need to silence the crowd. They all watch with rapt attention as Gelbin leaves them, back in his place among the Gnomes, and Jaina steps forward. She would speak first, a quick statement, more of a commencement, really. Neither side is interested in prolonging the tenuous meeting for longer than necessary.

In a clear voice, Jaina begins. "My friends. We have survived a time of calamity, of struggling, and suffering. But we survived. Azeroth survived. And this endless commitment to survival shall be our policy: by land, by sea, by air, we shall not only survive, but we shall thrive in our Unification." She pauses, gaze lingering on the Horde and Alliance in equal measure. "The eyes of the world are upon us. Let us show them the path to a peaceful existence, a world where they no longer need to live in fear. Our devotion is unparalleled, our path is clear. We shall not shirk from the conditions of our world, instead welcoming our opportunity to advance it into a civilization of prosperity and inexhaustible compassion. Let us rebuild and grow, with your families, your allies, and your peers."

The room remains silent except for heavy breathing, some inspired, some skeptical of her words. She did not expect cheering, and she doesn't need it. Jaina focuses on the few nodding heads on either side, Thrall's and Anduin's included. Their support is enough to change the tide.

She turns to Sylvanas, inclining her head. The Warchief steps forward, chin held high. Like Jaina, she needs no spell or microphone to carry her voice. "Heroes. Know this. Our common enemy remains in all those who would threaten the peace, those who wish to destroy a better world for future generations. We have demonstrated our might in decades of war, but now is the time to show our true prowess: the responsibility we bear in upholding the peace. The cost of this task is high, yet you stand here, unwilling to submit to another lifetime of war. We are a battalion of sound hearts and minds, prepared to defend this Unification of Azeroth until our final day."

Briefly, her eyes meet Jaina's before returning to the audience. "You must never forget that you are a tower of strength to your people, as your peers are a tower of strength to their own. Use them. Learn from them. Let the future generations tell of how we acted with valor, justice, and mercy for _all_ of Azeroth."

Jaina feels a stirring of pride in her. It mingles with surprise and pleasure at Sylvanas' speech, at the unexpected personalization in it. She hadn't expected Lireesa Windrunner's values-- dorah, selama, merd'an-- to resurface, but finds their inclusion almost touching. Jaina is not alone in this sentiment: from the crowd, Vereesa stares up at her sister with a stricken expression.

"It is time to meet your peers," Sylvanas announces. She places her hand on the bright purple button and says, "Shall we?"

Jaina smiles back, highly aware of the salvo of camera flashes and click of shutters from the back of the room. She places her hand atop Sylvanas' and says, "On three."

Jaina counts softly, and they press the button together with the solid clank. Around the room the metal balls begin to glow, manifesting cycling numbers in a golden arcane wave emanating from the pedestal. One by one, the numbers stop on a digit and a hundred faces turn to find their peer, as if hoping to outpace the magic itself. The names unfurl in an arcane swirl beneath Jaina's and Sylvanas' on the board, a waterfall of pairings.

Jaina's eyes dart down the list, scanning for those of particular import and interest to her. No doubt she'll receive a full copy later.

**2\. Tess Greymane -- Jastor Gallywix**

Genn's eyes widen, and his lip curls up at the second set of names on the board. Gallywix looks pleased enough, but Tess scowls.

**6\. Shandris Feathermoon -- Lor'themar Theron**

Shandris and Lor'themar acknowledge each other dutifully, and Jaina feels somewhat relieved by their fates. Shandris is in quite a predicament, and at least Lor'themar is mostly reasonable. Jaina ached for her friend, recalling the horror and hope on her face when she reported to Anduin in Stormwind two days prior. Baine hadn't told her about the refugees he harbored either, and Anduin forbade her from going to Thunder Bluff.

His order was awful, but Jaina respected the need for it. Any action on her part, even with the best of intentions, could upset the very delicate balance they maintained with the Horde. It reminded Jaina of the Forsaken Gathering in the Arathi Highlands, the first time the living and the undead of Lordaeron tried to reunite, and Calia Menethil rushed forward out of hiding, straight to her death at Sylvanas' hands. Calia could have brought an even bloodier war down upon their heads for all of her good intentions.

But Shandris is a soldier. She obeys her orders, and will not undermine her King, broken heart be damned. Shandris would not endanger her people.

Anduin could give no such order to Tyrande.

**10\. Muradin Bronzebeard -- Talanji Veyzan**

Jaina flinches. The trio of dwarves refused to be separated, citing that the Council of Three Hammers should be treated as one peer. No doubt Talanji would complain about this arrangement as soon as she realized what they'd done, but for now Moira Thaurissan appraises the troll queen like a gemstone, standing with a haughty expression beside Thane Bronzebeard and the grumbling Falstad Wildhammer. 

**13\. Gelbin Mekkatorque -- Thrall Og'Durotan**

Jaina hums. Thrall and Mekkatorque are well-suited to each other, both pleasant company, and Gelbin happily says, "Oh, quite right!"

**22\. Genn Greymane -- Varok Saurfang**

The men stare at each other flatly, not quite openly hostile, but with clear displeasure of the whole situation. They are both more than willing to suffer for the sake of the peace, but they don't have to enjoy it. _What connection could they have other than sons who died in the war?_ Jaina morbidly thinks. _And a deep hatred of Sylvanas._

The Warchief purses her lips as if she should have expected them to end up paired off. "Of course," she says under her breath, barely loud enough for Jaina to hear.

**29\. Anduin Wrynn -- Liadrin Sunthread**

As miserable as she was a moment ago, sudden glee peels across Sylvanas' face as she reads, her lips curled up into a lopsided smile, back to the crowd. Jaina furrows her brow, turning her gaze to Lady Liadrin, who clutches the pairing ball so tightly it might collapse, a look of absolute irritation on her face. Across the room, Anduin sees their names on the board and grins at his new peer happily. While Jaina cannot read lips, it looks to her like Liadrin mutters, " _Gods_."

**30\. Khadgar Shelby -- Mayla Highmountain**

Mayla's antlered head dips low, and Khadgar bends at the waist, the Archmage's bow the utmost praise for his tauren peer. The names continue unfurling.

**34\. Katherine Proudmoore -- Nathanos Blightcaller**

Jaina startles. Of all the possibilities for her mother's peer, she had not considered Nathanos, who is staring at Katherine like she personally ruined every good thing that ever happened in his life. Katherine raises an eyebrow at him.

"Hm," says Sylvanas, and Jaina has to agree.

**46\. Turalyon Deighton -- Halduron Brightwing**

The two men give mirrored nods, curt and professional, then turn back to the board as if they can't be bothered to consider their peer anymore. Turalyon looks exceptionally rough today, his stubble unkempt and his eyebrows knitted together sternly.

**55\. Velen Osiiram -- Lilian Voss**

Velen tilts his large head to one side, and Lilian sighs. Jaina doesn't blame either of them: she can't think of a single thing they have in common.

As the last of the names begin to appear on the list, something flickers in Jaina's periphery, not her vision but in her arcane senses. She looks out at the moving crowd, trying to find the source, but she sees only Thalyssra's pale purple eyes looking up at her, then quickly glancing behind her to the board. The last two pairings appear together, as if synchronized or glitching.

**59\. Aysa Cloudsinger -- Ji Firepaw**

**60\. Vereesa Windrunner -- Thalyssra Eles**

The Pandarens would be pleased with that outcome; they still seemed to get along nicely. Jaina wonders at Vereesa and Thalyssra though. She personally liked Thalyssra, and knew they'd worked together in Suramar, but the way she'd watched Vereesa was unusual, and spending time with the First Arcanist would undoubtedly call to mind memories of Rhonin. If the Nightborne had joined the Alliance, Thalyssra would certainly have been granted the title of Archmage too.

Jaina recollects her thoughts; she has a great deal to process about today, but feels that the whole event could have certainly gone worse for them. Sylvanas' glowing eyes follow her younger sister now, a touch of sadness on her face that disappears immediately when she senses Jaina's gaze.

Instead of addressing her, Jaina steps forward with a smile. The cameras flash again. "Well done. Congratulate yourselves on this momentous occasion, and introduce yourself to your peer." 

"Set your first meeting time," Sylvanas adds. "Our work is not yet complete."

Anduin is the first to break rank across faction lines, and Jaina cannot help but feel pride at his bravery and earnestness. He extends a hand to Liadrin, who takes it firmly, and it's as if their touch shatters a barrier around the other leaders. The Alliance and Horde begin to intermingle, shuffling like nervous teenagers at a town dance, their voices filling the meeting room.

Jaina turns back to Sylvanas and says, "That went well."

"No one's bleeding yet," Sylvanas acknowledges. "No riots either."

"Your standards are too low."

"My standards are reasonable given the situation," she drawls.

They stand together in silence for a time, watching the leaders of Azeroth experience history's first successful peace treaty of the Horde and Alliance. Many of the men and women before them have never spoken to a figurehead of the opposite faction: they've never seen them as individuals, just one of many faces on a battlefield, desperate to do them harm.

Today is different. Jaina feels a content, tiny smile-- a real one this time-- tug at her lips. Today, it feels like she won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but the Proudmoores are dark-comedy-lovin sailors who gossip and drink and fight and gamble, but give it all up under the guise of being fancy leader-types. You can pry this headcanon out of my cold, dead fingers.
> 
> PS - Jaina's drink, the Mutineer, is an Old Fashioned.


	17. Vereesa, Alleria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sry to y'all Turalyon fans.
> 
> You're welcome to everyone else. M rating for a reason. :)

Vereesa walks forward, half-carried by the crowd around her, back to the other side of the meeting room. She passes orcs and blood elves and undead in a daze, eyes trained on Thalyssra and her nightborne. When she first passed through their ranks she hardly felt the anxiety radiating from her Silver Covenant Rangers; she had a target on the other side, where she needed to be, so that's where her feet took her.

It was simple math, something her brain could still handle. But now that the speeches are done and the pairings are decided, her equations simply don't add up.

_Jaina is holding Sylvanas' arm. Sylvanas talked to her mother. Sylvanas talked about_ our _mother. Almost._

Her thoughts are distracted and sluggish as she walks, echoing around in the deadened shell of her mind. She has to remind herself that she's got a job to do: protect the Alliance in this meeting. Focus.

Vereesa felt only numbness until her name lit up the board, the last entry on the list, paired with Thalyssra Eles. She feels a certain affinity for Thalyssra, though she probably shouldn't have touched her the way she did a week ago, positioning herself between the arguing men and the First Arcanist, hand on her body. But even Vereesa, with all of her emotional distance and distractions, could see that she was fearful, and sorry to have caused such a disturbance. She'd only wanted to reassure her.

Her ears flatten and her vision comes into focus. She sees no signs of posturing or threats around her, only the unhappy, sickly green of Liadrin Sunthread's gaze as she passes by her, hand firmly grasping Anduin's.

Vereesa doesn't remember much about her past now, her happiness a language lost from disuse, but she remembers being Liadrin's friend all those years ago. Jaina watches her too, her current friend, or the closest thing she has to it now-- they've grown apart, she misses her, she misses Liadrin too, her third sister-- and she stops in her tracks, overwhelmed.

Her heart pounds. It's getting to be too much. Shandris confused her with a surprise embrace, the touch was a warhorn in her mind, and added to the noise was her invitation to Lor'danel. She said Alleria was there, that she might want to see her soon. She said Vereesa was always welcome.

Vereesa saw the void portal and Turalyon's drawn face. She could do the math. She never understood that relationship: Alleria needed her independence more than Sylvanas and Vereesa combined, and Turalyon could never offer her that. He wouldn't even if he could.

But she trusted Shandris' words and intentions; she'd hugged her before at Theramore. Their connection was one of the only ways Vereesa felt comfortable approaching Tyrande in Suramar, discussing her friendship with her daughter. She certainly didn't go out of her way to approach Liadrin like that on that warfront: it would be like exposing her throat to an assassin's blade.

_It's dangerous to remember. To be engrossed._

Vereesa blinks. Liadrin would always hate her. That was her right after the Purge. Sylvanas would always ignore her. That was her right after the Trial.

Thalyssra is smiling at her, glowing marks on her face twisting up with her lips. She looks nervous, lovely and lonely despite the nightborne that flank her. There is a man, a Spell-fencer, with an empty sheath on his hip since no weapons are allowed in the Violet Citadel, and a woman, an Arcanist with a coy smile, who looks like she doesn't need a blade to wreak havoc. The woman leans into Thalyssra, speaking privately into her ear, but her smirking eyes do not leave Vereesa's face.

Vereesa blinks. She has seen this strange behavior before. She has seen Sylvanas as its victim in Silvermoon with a cadre of admirers vying for her attention. She has seen Valeera do this in Stormwind to anyone she needed to incite. This Arcanist is trying to make her jealous, and Thalyssra seems completely oblivious. This Arcanist is using her.

Vereesa decides, then and there, that she does not like this other woman. At least she could thank her for snapping her to attention.

"First Arcanist, it's good to see you again," Vereesa says in a voice far firmer than usual. She extends a hand that Thalyssra gingerly accepts. "Seems I'll have ample opportunity to give you that tour after all."

"Just Thalyssra, please. And yes," she says, her smile widening. "How fortunate for me."

There is a hint of something fragrant that floats around Thalyssra, the scent of vanilla fills Vereesa's nose along with something herbal and floral. _Thyme_ , she thinks. _And jasmine?_ The vanilla reminds her of Rhonin's magic, but Thalyssra shares none of his bright citrus. Her scent is rich and perplexing, a dark, deep arcane perfume. She wishes she could consult Sylvanas, but she's too far away to catch the scent, and they aren't talking anyway. She glances up at her sister, and finds a pair of red eyes watching her surreptitiously. Beside her, their arms interlinked again, Jaina also openly eyes her. Jaina, at least, offers a soft smile.

Vereesa returns it against her better judgment, then turns back to Thalyssra. The woman at her side is whispering into her ear again.

"Oh, this is Valtrois, my Arcanist," Thalyssra motions, "And my spell-fencer, Silgryn."

They both bow to her, Silgryn diplomatically and Valtrois with a rebellious grin. Vereesa ignores her.

She catches snippets of the other leaders around her introducing their retinues with varying degrees of formality, some forcing them to shake hands, others barely offering a nod. Vereesa turns to introduce her two Rangers and, in a moment of absolute, vacuous horror, forgets their names. She gestures emptily at them. She's known these women for decades, counted them as friends once upon a time, trusted them with her life. 

_My mind isn't right_ , she thinks, abruptly terrified. _This isn't right._

"Cethil," the first steps forward.

"Aurin," says the second, bowing.

Vereesa nods, hoping no one else noticed her sudden silence. Thalyssra's purple eyes roam her face, but her tiny smile remains intact.

"When will you be available to meet?" Thalyssra asks.

"If you're interested in seeing Stormwind, I could host a visit in two days. Dalaran will happen, I promise, but it may take me more time," says Vereesa. She would have to find a sitter for the boys to properly arrange a day in Dalaran, or drop them off with Anduin if he was available. Ironically, the High King of the Alliance was one of her more reliable babysitters now that Jaina spent most of her time in Boralus.

"I'm interested," Thalyssra immediately replies. Her ears are completely upright, enthusiastic and childlike. Vereesa enjoys that she has no reservations about her emotions or desires. She's straightforward, and as honest as anyone from the Horde can be. 

"Good," she says, and suddenly, markedly, she means it. She feels excited, or some muted version of it she can still understand, that Thalyssra will be visiting her so soon, and will be doing so with some measure of joy. She hardly ever sees that anymore, and never directed at something she suggested. 

Vereesa returns her smile with one that's somewhat lopsided, but earnest. "Forgive me for an early departure, but I've been tasked with outside security. I'm afraid we need to return to the Square. I'll send you a letter with my address for the meeting. Dinner would be best."

"Of course," Thalyssra says gracefully.

Vereesa makes her exit swiftly, passing between the chaos of the Horde and Alliance, to return to her station. She turns back only once before she closes the door, and sees that Thalyssra's eyes still follow her. The First Arcanist flushes, caught so obviously staring, and Vereesa wonders why she finds her bashfulness so endearing.

* * *

It was never her intention to end things the way she did with Turalyon: an abrupt shouting match in his sparse bedroom on the Vindicaar, her backing as far away from him as her legs could drive her, him pursuing despite her overt fear. He always pressed, demanding more from her, expecting explanations and apologies regardless of who was in the wrong. Alleria viewed it as passion once, half a millennia ago, as the zealotry of a man who burned deeply for his Light, his cause, and his wife.

She no longer sees him that way. It's not even about the Light and the chasm between her Void-- it's about _him_ and their history and the control he's always exerted over her. It is as if a veil has been lifted from her eyes, leaving resentment and bitterness and an entire lifetime wasted instead.

Perhaps it was cruel to finally leave him before the meeting. She doesn't care.

The voice in her mind returned with a vengeance, screaming at her the moment she left Lor'danel. Her body began to ache again, as if the force of gravity tripled around her, pressing from all sides. How desperately she wanted to run, away from the voice, away from her past, but she strode forward calmly, the way Shandris would. She would face what she needed to face with courage and calm.

TAKE HIS LIFE. TAKE HIS LIGHT.

When she found Turalyon, she told him, "I can't do this for you anymore. I am not the woman you married."

"No, you certainly aren't," he sneered, and his voice began to raise. "You can't do anything for me anymore."

HE IS YOUR ENEMY. HE WILL BETRAY YOU. SLAY HIM.

He meant it as an insult, but she could only feel relieved that the veneer that fooled her for so long was gone. He continued to shout the way he sometimes did, the way she believed passionate men sometimes did, and she thought him very small for all of his accomplishments. She heard him say that their marriage was over, that he didn't trust her to be faithful any more when she was always running away from home.

A small part of her churned spitefully, and thought, _If only you knew how easily I could have been unfaithful to you, and I wasn't._

He shouted other things too, worse things that all his paladins could hear resounding down the metal hallways, but as she strode through the Vindicaar with her head held high, Alleria thought, _My parents never fought like this. Why did I think this was normal for so long?_

Just before she summoned a portal, she saw Arator rushing toward her. Joy and fear jumped in her heart: she loved her son but has never connected with him. He has Turalyon's jaw and her bright, sunshiney hair, but so much of him reminds her of Vereesa. She raised him to have her expressive lips, quick to frown and quicker to smile, and that dangerous, endless capacity for forgiveness.

TAKE THE BOY. MAKE HIM OURS. END HIM.

"I love you, mother. No matter what," he said. He knew better than to reach out and touch her, but from the look on his face he heard every word of his parents' conversation.

"I love you too, my sweet boy," she said, the words unfamiliar in her mouth. She was never affectionate with him. She didn't know how to be. But the words tumbled out. "Your father and I... we're not together anymore. I'm sorry... I just need to be away from here."

KILL HIM TAKE THE BOY DO NOT LET HIM ESCAPE US

Arator gave her a hesitant nod, "I understand. You don't need to be sorry. I'll see you again. Just please, be safe."

"I will," she said. The black portal opened behind her, a tear in the fabric of space. "I will see you again soon. I promise."

SLAY HIM MAKE HIM JOIN YOU MAKE HIM JOIN US

She closed her eyes tightly, trying to silence the voice as it thundered through her mind. She walked out of the blackness and onto the beaches of Lor'danel, staring off at Teldrassil as she frequently did, the World Tree's corpse the permanent focal point for her eyes. She was drawn to the mystery of what remained there, as if a softer voice beckoned her forward, needling her to explore the dead, ashen island.

Alleria spent the rest of the morning with her five void elf soldiers, allowing Shandris time to make her final preparations for Dalaran. They'd spoken at length yesterday of what she could expect, the ideal responses for any number of scenarios with Sylvanas and Anduin and all the Horde peers she could possibly pull. They decided that, while Gallywix was obviously the worst, Nathanos was a close second for Shandris. Any situation that would put her nearer to Sylvanas was despicable, and Nathanos had committed a litany of crimes against her people, against her own _family_ , on Darkshore.

Though Shandris quietly told her that she'd killed a Dark Ranger-Captain, Areiel, during the war too. She kicked idly at the sand, saying that she didn't think anyone from Sylvanas' inner circle would be willing to work with her amiably, and the feeling was mutual.

Still, Alleria advised her to be prepared for any outcome, and steady in the face of adversity. They could sort the rest out later. Today, she had to be a monument to goodness, patience, and peace for everyone to see.

She opened the portal for the night elves just before noon, all magnificent in their armor, but paled by the brilliance that was Shandris, a beacon of beauty and power. Alleria turned her eyes away with a reddening face. She desperately wanted to talk to her about what happened that morning, but she couldn't distract her before the meeting.

Shandris took her hand just before she passed through. Her voice was secretive and low, "Thank you for everything. It means the world to me."

A blush flitted across Alleria's nose and cheeks, but she managed to respond, "It was nothing. You're going to be excellent."

Shandris smiled one last time before stepping through the portal, her deep blue cape swirling behind her. Alleria felt as they passed through the emptiness to Dalaran, and closed the portal with a thought. She almost wished she could go to see Shandris perform in all her glory, but a secondhand account would have to suffice.

As she returned to the other ren'dorei, Alleria began to worry about Shandris' safe return, a creeping fear that roiled in her gut. She pressed the nagging thought from her mind, convincing herself than if anyone could take care of a troublesome situation, it was Shandris.

The void elves putter around their new campsite. They liked staying here, and she trusted Umbric to look after the others, few as they were. They all wear haphazardly mended night elf clothing now, glad to be rid of their armor for as long as possible. Alleria wears Shandris' too-long hand-me-downs, a first for her. As the eldest daughter, she'd never worn anything but new clothes.

The pink skirt is thick and flowing, and was hemmed nearly a foot before the fabric stopped dragging across the ground when she walked. Her blouse, ivory with blue buttons, is still too baggy to fit her properly, but she likes that is still smells of Shandris beneath her green winter cloak.

Turalyon scowled as she approached him earlier. He obviously did not approve of her clothing choices along with everything else.

As she stares into the campfire she remembers when Arator was first born, and how aggressively Turalyon insisted their child should bear his surname. That Arator was a Deighton, not a Windrunner. She pressed back lightly, pointing out that half-elves typically chose a family name when they came of age, not always their father's name as the human tradition dictated, and sometimes adopted a new name entirely.

He frowned at her as she held their swaddled infant, her body still exhausted from the birth, and left the nursery without a word. She should have known then that they were doomed to fail.

She wonders what it means that her son is a man grown, and he still has not decided his name. She would never wish Deighton or Windrunner upon him, no matter how much he resembled his parents. Sometimes, in a rare moments when she caught him strumming his guitar, a placid smile on his lips, she saw all the beauty and potential that Lirath held in his youth, if only he'd been allowed to grow up safely. 

It is hours past sunset when Shandris finally returns, weary and drained, rubbing the base of her neck. She passes through the Dalaran mage portal with bags under her bright eyes, congratulating her sentinels on a job well done. She shakes each of their hands in turn, touching some on the shoulder to express her gratitude. They seem proud, more because of Shandris' recognition than because of what they actually did.

Her shoulders slouch in relief as soon as she sees Alleria watching her from a fire near the void elves, a bright spot in the darkness. Alleria meets her halfway across the beach, closer to Shandris' tent. 

"What a day," Shandris exhales as she approaches.

"I was worried," Alleria blurts, pursing her lips at the admission. Her embarrassment is worth it when Shandris rests a warm hand on her upper arm.

"It went well, truly. I had moments that were a struggle, but it helped me to talk things through with you yesterday. Thank you for that," says Shandris. She stares at middle distance briefly, an unfocused, uncharacteristic pause, her ears flat and lifeless.

Alleria nods. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished. I didn't expect to be kept so late, but I needed to speak with Anduin and everything lasted longer than I anticipated."

Alleria guides her back to their tent as she speaks, arm around her waist. She'd tidied up the papers on the desk and rearranged the pillows of their pallet. She also had dinner ready for Shandris, albeit a bit cold now: dried sausage and cheese and a honeyed wheat bread. The food is a lame picnic at best, but Shandris eats ravenously and slouches in the oak chair when she's finished. Alleria sits in a rickety spare chair beside her, one they dragged in several days ago so they could both eat at the desk and not the floor.

"I was paired with Lor'themar. He was polite enough. Our first official meeting with be in Silvermoon two days after the Unification wedding." Shandris pauses. "Jaina and Sylvanas appear to be getting along well."

Alleria scowls. It is a small blessing that she didn't sign the treaty and thus wouldn't receive a peer. She cannot fathom the misery of being partnered off with someone like Lor'themar or Rommath after the incident at the Sunwell. Even Thalyssra, who seemed level-headed and less prone to faction-related prejudices, apparently begrudged her for it, as if Alleria could have predicted her presence alone would corrupt their sacred waters. Her sensitivity to the Light only grew worse after that dreadful visit.

_At least he was polite to Shandris._

And, as for the wedding, Alleria would rather not imagine all the suffering that event entails for Jaina. In another lifetime she and her sister might have enjoyed each other's company, but probably not even then. They are both too stubborn, and now Sylvanas is past the point of reasoning. The necklaces she gave her sisters are long gone.

"It's an act," says Alleria without question.

Shandris leans forward, placing a warm hand on Alleria's knee. The touch sends a shiver up her spine: even casual contact electrifies her. She resists the urge to lean in, to make herself even warmer in the winter cold.

"I'm sure it is too, but Jaina's holding up. They weren't at each other's throats. And Vereesa is..." Shandris' fingers fidget, "I invited Vereesa to visit us in Lor'danel. I think she needs the company. I hope that's all right."

Her ceremonial armor bunches against her neck, pressing deeply into the limber muscles that run the length of it. Alleria stares at her lips and the complete lack of distance between them.

"Alleria?"

"Yes, that's fine," she tears her eyes away. Shandris' hand stays in place on her knee. "I could go see her in Stormwind instead. I don't want to interfere with your work here."

The rebuilding efforts in Lor'danel move at a snail's pace, but they move. What was once a thriving seaside inn and tavern is being rebuilt as a hospital for the infirm and injured. Several of the Sentinels suggested it become Shandris' new headquarters and command hub, but she refused. She would keep her tent and they could prioritize the health of their civilians first.

"Please, don't. There's too much Light there. It'll hurt you."

Shandris' blue eyes search her face, concerned for Alleria's safety in spite of her endless responsibilities and her own pain. Her selflessness and proximity make Alleria want to weep. Tears well in her eyes, hot and thick, and she hates them. She is always crying in front of Shandris after years of tears never falling, but her emotions catch up to her when she's still, and she finds she can't run anymore. Her lip quivers and she lowers her head, blonde hair a curtain before her eyes.

"Hey," whispers Shandris. She slides off of her chair and kneels at Alleria's feet, dirtying her fine armor. Both of her hands find the sides of Alleria's face, cupping her cheeks and grazing the base of her ears. "It's okay."

"I left Turalyon," she chokes out.

Shandris inhales, eyes wide, "Oh."

"This morning-- before the meeting. I don't love him. I haven't in so long. He was cruel."

Shandris leans forward, pulling her into a tight hug. Alleria returns it, breathing in the smell of her skin and relishing the stroke of her fingertips against the wispy hair at the base of her neck.

"Did he hurt you?" Shandris asks, voice low, an unsheathed weapon.

Alleria peels herself away, hands pressed to her platemailed chest. "No, not... he was angry, but he didn't hurt me."

Shandris faces her, serious and probing. This is the Sentinel-General, her jaw set as if she rides into battle, as prepared to shed blood as she is to breathe. Alleria revels in her anger, an open door to a room she's never explored before. Her skin grows warm with the unspoken promise Shandris offers: _I would hurt him if you asked me to._

The thought is awful, ugly, a criminal idea that belongs no where near the innocent, loving heart of Shandris Feathermoon. But Alleria finds herself leaning into the blistering heat, the lingering revelation that Shandris would see violence done before letting her come to harm again. Her gaze dances across Alleria's face, protective and furious and vulnerable.

"I would tell you," Alleria whispers. "I swear."

Shandris closes her eyes, the fury melts away slowly, like sap from a gutted tree. She still holds Alleria's cheeks in her palms, their foreheads so close they could touch. The intimacy of it makes her tremble with want; she needs the safety and the warmth of her embrace. She can taste Shandris' exhales. She can feel her pulse through her palms. In the pit of her stomach she craves even more.

Alleria is sick of running.

She leans forward, pressing her lips to Shandris' softly: uncertain and gentle. One hand slides to the back of her head, beneath dark blue hair, as the other rests on the base of her neck. Warmth blossoms in her chest, a sensation she hasn't felt in centuries, and never this intense.

What Alleria began, Shandris continues. The kiss becomes more desperate, insistent lips press against her own with a lustful urgency, and Alleria gasps at the sudden brush of Shandris' tongue.

"I'm sorry-" she begins, but Alleria pulls her even closer, pressing their lips together like she's wanted to for weeks. She opens her mouth and tilts her head, and Shandris inches forward on her knees, kissing Alleria so deeply that her breath hitches in her throat.

She hasn't been kissed in so long it makes her lightheaded. The tears spill over her cheeks, running between Shandris' fingers, and Alleria feels like she's slowing down, finally able to rest with someone she trusts. Shandris may not feel the same way about her-- no one would invite such a mess into their life-- but she's kind and loving and at least, for now, seems to want to kiss her back.

Alleria barely manages to pull herself away, panting, catching her breath. Shandris follows her lips, coming to a stop only after she realizes Alleria's back is fully against the rickety chair and her cheeks are stained by a blush and tears. She rests both of her hands on Alleria's thighs, her own eyes heavily lidded.

"Alleria, I don't want to rush y-" 

She leans forward again, her lips over Shandris', a small whimper forming in the back of her throat. Her hands fumble at the ceremonial armor, desperately trying to unbuckle everything keeping her from Shandris' skin. She shrugs off her own cloak, ignoring the creaking of the chair, as Shandris' spaulders fall to the cold ground. Alleria kisses along her now-exposed collarbone, relishing the heavy exhale Shandris gives her, the finest gift she's ever received.

She is something beautiful, and she deserves to be worshiped. Alleria hopes she knows it, that she can show her-- that her lust is laced with adoration.

Suddenly, Shandris' hands run up the length of Alleria's legs beneath the pink skirt, and she lifts her out of the chair as she rises to her feet. They never break their kiss, and Alleria moans into her mouth at the pressure of Shandris' stomach between her legs. She clings onto her shoulders and her legs wrap around her more tightly, pressing their bodies together as hard as she can.

Shandris sets her down on the pallet, carefully resting her head on one of the many pillows. Alleria's skirt slides up past her knees, and the top button of her blouse was lost somewhere in transit from the chair to the bed, but she doesn't care. Shandris stands over her, the skin of her cheeks a darker blue, and slowly removes the rest of her armor.

Alleria mirrors her, pulling her shirt overhead, and slipping out of her skirt entirely. She shivers in her smallclothes, the air is so cold, and Shandris stops what she's doing.

She kneels down, kissing her deeply, and pulls back the covers. "Get in," she says. Satisfied that Alleria is warmer, she returns to removing her armor, stripping languidly down to nothing.

Alleria's eyes admire her lithe form, muscled and tall. She lets herself stare the way she wouldn't before, lingering on her breasts and all the little scars that mark her skin. She is all the hardness of a soldier and the softness of a woman, and she _aches_ for her in a way she didn't believe was possible. Shandris stands over her without shame, watching her back with an uncertain expression.

Alleria sits up, ridding herself of the rest of her clothing. She reaches one arm up to her, "Get in with me. Please."

Shandris slides behind her, sitting upright and resting her back against the pillows. Alleria leans into her, as Shandris envelops her in an embrace, her breasts pressed to her back, warmth spilling into her. Alleria's breath catches.

"Are you sure?" Shandris asks, gently moving blonde hair to one side. She kisses along Alleria's shoulder, one hand holding her head, the other tracing along the length of her abdomen.

"Yes," Alleria breathes. " _Please_."

Shandris doesn't ask again. She shifts her weight so that Alleria sits across her lap, still cradled against her chest. She kisses Alleria deeply, her right hand roaming the length of her body, stopping only to focus on her hardened nipples before exploring lower. Alleria moans into her mouth-- she needs more; she needs all of Shandris-- and finally the fingertips dragging on the inside of her thighs find the wetness between her legs instead. Shandris starts slowly, humming in pleasure at what she feels.

"You're so gorgeous," she murmurs, her fingers stroking deftly.

Alleria gasps against her, clutching both sides of Shandris' face as if her lips are her only lifeline, like she needs to pull her closer to survive. She hasn't been touched in so long, and the motion is so sweet, pressing and persistent and _good_ , that she feels her pleasure building and can't do anything to stop it. She doesn't want to stop; she wants to come for Shandris, so she does.

She arches her back and shudders, both hands clasped over her mouth as she groans. Shandris holds her up, her fingers still working until Alleria breathlessly moans for her to stop, gasping and reaching out for another embrace. Shandris obliges, pressing their lips together chastely, peppering little kisses across Alleria's flushed face. 

As her heartbeat slows, Alleria soaks in the afterglow of Shandris' ministrations on her body. She delights in the warmth and sense of relaxation, at the smile she feels in Shandris' kisses. Then, she grabs the back of her neck, pulling her down at an angle for a kiss that is decidedly less chaste.

Alleria rises to her knees, pressing Shandris down against the pillows. Shandris says, "I can just hold you if you need-"

"I need you in my mouth." With a hungry smile, Alleria hooks Shandris' knees and pulls her closer, back sliding against the sheets.

Shandris swallows thickly, sucking her lips into her mouth. Alleria kisses along her breasts, tongue rolling against one nipple as her hands brace her hips. She inches lower as Shandris writhes, one hand gently gliding across the slickness between her legs. Her heart leaps in her throat at Shandris' arousal, and she cannot stop herself from tasting her, disappearing beneath the comforter.

Shandris is not as quiet as she was, and Alleria reveres the sounds she makes. As soon as her mouth makes contact, Shandris moans, "Oh, _gods,_ Alleria."

She is dripping wet against her tongue, and Alleria can only think of how much she enjoys pleasuring her, and taking care of Shandris for once. Her body is perfection and the mewling sound coming from her throat is enough to drive Alleria mad with desire. Hips roll against her tongue with more and more _need,_ and Alleria has never seen a woman move so beautifully.

When Shandris orgasms she screams, "Oh fuck!" holding the top of Alleria's head in place until her quivering hands finally release her, and she closes her legs. She rolls onto her side, curled into a tight a ball, hands grasping at the pillow beneath her head.

Alleria follows her down, pulling up the covers and kissing along her back. Shandris shivers at the feather-soft touch of her lips, so Alleria wraps a steadying arm around her waist. She doesn't want to say anything else; she just wants to keep kissing her, again and again, making up for every time she so foolishly resisted before. 

Shandris rolls onto her back, hair splayed out behind her, and presses their lips together softly. Alleria feels her smiling, and lays half on top of her, half beside her, their legs intertwined. She presses her nose and cheek into Shandris' neck, their bodies as close as possible, relishing the long fingers that weave through her hair and glide across her lower back.

Surrounded by warmth and tenderness, Alleria kisses the soft skin of Shandris' neck one last time before sleep claims them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *posts fluffsmut at 4 am*
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhahahahahhahaha
> 
> *starts crying*


	18. Sylvanas, Maiev

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you're a Dark Ranger, it's always shit-on-Nathanos-o'clock.
> 
> Also, this features more canon lore changes re: the circumstances of Derek Proudmoore's raising. Baine wasn't imprisoned and Thomas Zelling is still undead (ref. the 8.1.5 cutscene and then pretend that shit didn't happen).

The bundle of papers lay stacked on the square table, tidily bound and bow-tied by twine. Each page features a different ship in the Kul Tiran fleet meticulously sketched and shaded at the top, with row after row of details on captains, first mates, nautical histories, and anecdotal stories written in a clean script beneath them.

A single folded note rests atop the pile. It reads:

_This is my only copy. Please return it safely._

_-Jaina_

Sylvanas peruses the dossier, admiring its comprehensiveness, and wonders if Jaina drew the diagrams herself or if there was some impossibly accurate magic trick they taught in Dalaran to transcribe mental pictures to the parchment. Either way, the text beneath each image was certainly hand-written by the Lord Admiral herself, half-scholarly specifications, half-memoir of her interactions with the ship and crew. It was far more information than Sylvanas assumed Jaina would willingly share with her in the name of her naval education; were they still military adversaries, giving her this sort of proprietary knowledge would have been a fatal misstep. 

The three of them sit in the Warchief's Suite: Sylvanas lounging in a chair, Nathanos laying on the grey sofa, feet propped up on an armrest, boots discarded on the floor, and Anya in the windowsill nook, legs curled beneath her. It is the first time in months that she's been alone for any length of time with her most trusted advisers, since well before Teldrassil, and she finds the experience refreshing and unnerving, as if she's forgotten how to behave outside of war councils and endless financial advisory meetings. They'd worked vigorously all day, catching up on everything they'd postponed to go to Dalaran the day prior, desperately trying to prepare for tomorrow's trade route summit.

The days passed in a blur to Sylvanas, punctuated only by tense moments with Jaina, as if cleaning up after a war somehow kept her busier than the war itself. In the morning Lor'themar and Gallywix would visit Orgrimmar, along with some Nightborne noble Thalyssra selected to represent her people, Ly'leth Lunastre. Sylvanas hopes the woman is as cunning as Thalyssra implies, if she planned to hold her own beside Lor'themar's designs to rebuild Silvermoon and Gallywix's outright greed. Balancing the trade and checkbooks of the Horde is no small task and, on top of their internal struggles, they need to have their finances in order before dealing with the Alliance. The Reparations Council had yet to convene, but undoubtedly coin would be their first topic of conversation.

Anya asks, "Who is the captain of _The Ferdinand_?"

Sylvanas knows this one easily; she'd read about that particular boat first. She crosses her legs, replying, "Warton Spooner, and the first mate is Nadia Combs. _The Ferdinand_ is the oldest ship in the fleet. Three oak decks, three pine masts, square-rigged sails. Lost at sea, called home, notably damaged and repaired topside with Darkshore lumber. She's a seventy-four gun ship, two of which are aft. Sits heavy in the waterline, eight knots at top speed, two hundred and six sailors aboard, including officers. Named for Ferdinand Proudmoore, Jaina Proudmoore's great, great grandfather, who, as legend has it, developed the design for Kul Tiras' second generation galleons after being partially struck in the head by a cannonball."

Nathanos sips his drink. "Now you're just showing off."

"You had ample time to study up before these came into my possession," Sylvanas says. She turns to Anya. "What time did these arrive?"

"Taelia delivered it first thing this morning."

Sylvanas notes that Anya has been daydreaming more of late, unlike her usual sensible self. The Fordragon girl no doubt occupies a large swath of her mind, if her content smile is any indicator. She is fine with it, so long as it doesn't impede the Ranger-Captain's duties.

Nathanos sets his glassware on the table, mindful to use a coaster, and says in his best fatherly voice, "Be careful extending your trust of that woman so freely, Anya. We may have signed the Unification Treatise but she isn't one of us, and doesn't understand our ways."

Anya crosses her arms, "Certainly, Nathanos. There's simply no way a human from the Alliance could ever be trusted among undead elves." She levels him with a look.

He tilts his head. "Point taken."

Anya isn't done. She rests her chin in her palm, "Indeed, they are all filthy, coarse beasts with no redeeming qualities outside of the occasional exotic brown hair and eyes. Truly, even that isn't enough to make up for their puny, deceitful minds-"

"Point _taken_."

Sylvanas' lips quirk at the corners. She says, "I suggest you spend less time offering your advice and more time educating yourself, Nathanos, lest you embarrass us all in front of the First Mother of the Fleet."

He frowns. "I've no such homework assignment. I'm merely a Peer. Not all of us are unlucky enough to be forced into marrying a Proudmoore for world peace." He sits up, placing his papers on the table. "On that note, we're less than a week from Winter's End. Have you given any more thought to the ceremony? I glanced over the plans..." he trails off.

Sylvanas waves him on, "And?"

"And," he pauses again, eyes trained on the fireplace instead of her face, "Liadrin is a traditionalist, it appears. It... includes an il'amaren."

Anya's eyes widen. She busies herself with the boat notes in her lap, lips flattened.

Sylvanas' face darkens. _Of course it does_.

Il'amaren, the heart's welcome, was an old Thalassian tradition meant to represent the first meeting of the newlyweds in the eyes of the gods. It usually occurred after the ceremony and pronunciation of the marriage itself, and the was the climax of every elven wedding that Sylvanas had ever attended. It meant that each member of the couple had invited the other to rest safely in their heart, binding and sealing their commitment with a kiss.

With a pang of frustration, she knows that Liadrin understands the importance of this moment in the ceremony. She was a priestess of Belore once upon a time, and had conducted more than one wedding in her day. And now Liadrin is a shrewd woman who recognizes that those of their status are always being watched, keenly aware that the ink of the press would forever solidify the wedding in the public's eye. The First Peers must be seen unified in every regard.

In the recesses of her mind, Sylvanas thinks that she hasn't been kissed since she was alive, since months before the Scourge. It seems fitting that her first kiss after death be with someone who hates her. It is exactly what she deserves.

She would have to warn Jaina, if only so she could have the opportunity to veto the notion. Though the Lord Admiral seems equally as resigned to her suffering.

"As it should," she says offhandedly. "This wedding is an historical event, and whole world will be watching us. We all have a role to play in it."

"Yes, well," he clears his throat. "It also contains some obscure version of a human ribbon binding, though I'm not familiar with it. Must've been the boy king's suggestion. You'll tie something called the Fisherman's Knot with her. The rest of it is standard wedding fare, white dresses, an exchange of gifts, the first dance, and so on."

"Thrilling," she drawls.

She makes a mental note to research the Fisherman's Knot. She has no desire to be caught unawares regarding anything with Jaina Proudmoore, least of all their own public spectacle of a wedding.

Sylvanas makes her way to the liquor cart, pouring herself a drink for the first time in ages. The thick glass decanter on the lower shelf is filled with clear liquid, a distilled orcish grain alcohol called Red Sands 190, one of the few things she can still taste. To her Forsaken palate the brutal liquid reads like an aged whiskey, malty and rich. Anything less powerful holds no flavor on her tongue. In Quel'thalas she used to favor wine like her father, though he was partial to whites and she to reds.

Nathanos, if left to his own devices, would drink every last drop of Red Sands 190 in the suite, not to attempt drunkenness, which would almost certainly never happen with his undead body, but out of sheer habit. They would sit for hours hypothesizing and sipping their drinks as Rangers, planning battles and generally prodding at one another. Anya joined them later, after their undeaths, but managed to fit seamlessly into their conversations, quick and sarcastic in a way they could both appreciate.

It seemed a lifetime ago that they last enjoyed each other's company. Sylvanas pushes the image of Nathanos' scowl from her mind, the way he bared his teeth when she ordered him to burn the World Tree, the guilt he couldn't mask when he began the fiery siege. And then, a month later, the terror that flashed across Anya's face when she gave her report of the kaldorei refugees in Thunder Bluff. Sylvanas couldn't decide which was worse: the way they both loathed and feared her responses, or that she behaved exactly as they expected she would.

She peruses the files severely as she returns to her chair. There is something intimate and sincere about the notes beneath each ship, Jaina's personal opinion and a story for each of them, as if she's written a cast of characters for a novel. Some wax and wane poetic, artistic descriptions of their naval prowess, but Sylvanas' favorite note belongs to the page for _Bleak Bessie_ , clutched in her left hand _._ It simply says, "A right bitch to steer."

She chuckles, and hands the page to Nathanos. He chortles too, then passes it to Anya, who huffs a laugh. 

Nathanos says, "Speaking of bitches to steer, how have I managed to end up assigned to Gallywix _again_?" He twists over the back of the sofa to face Anya, who sucks in her lips and looks away. "It's your turn to escort him."

She shrugs, "Sorry. I have Lor'themar tomorrow. The schedule shows it."

"You make the schedule!"

She stares at him, noisily slurping her drink.

"Gods," he mutters, realizing with a sinking expression that she won't concede. "Oh, I saw you reassigned Delaryn to that Nightborne woman. Leela? What's her name?"

Sylvanas stiffens at the mention of Delaryn, but doesn't look up from the notes. She would make a point not to interact with her tomorrow, if only because she'd done so well controlling her emotions the last two days thanks to the fox and her small measure of success at the peer meeting. Still, she will never be ready to face the dazed, ambling personification of her worst failure. Just looking Shandris Feathermoon in the eyes the day prior sounded a violent claxon in her mind, even armed with the knowledge that Baine's treachery had lightened the depth of her mistake by an order of magnitude.

"Ly'leth Lunastre," Anya corrects him. "An aristocrat from Suramar, and a prominent member of the Nightborne rebellion. Apparently she's good with money."

"Why not let Marrah be her bodyguard? She was the original assignment."

"One: it's Marrah. Two: Delaryn and I share a rest day tomorrow, so I didn't have to pull her off of rounds. I know she's not doing anything else."

"She does need something to keep her occupied," Nathanos mumbles.

"We're getting off-topic," Sylvanas snaps. "I hear a lot of chatter and none of it about ships."

"Fine," Nathanos pouts. He consults the notes, "How many tons of cargo can _The Siren's Daughter_ hold?"

Sylvanas' hadn't read that page yet, but she saw that the drawing was nearly identical to _Corsair's Head_. She says, "Six hundred."

He rolls his eyes, "Lucky guess."

"What's final line in the note for _The Valorous Rose_?" Anya asks.

"In a broadside exchange, she will sink all challengers without mercy," Sylvanas answers. Though, for that particular ship, she didn't need Jaina's note to know as much. _The Valorous Rose_ wreaked havoc on her own fleet, brutalizing _The Dark Defiance_ in their last skirmish. The Horde fleet couldn't compare to the Alliance's and, for that, Sylvanas gave the Lord Admiral some measure of her respect. Sylvanas sips her drink, considering that it is far wiser to have Jaina Proudmoore as an ally than an enemy, not only because of her magical prowess, but due to the gargantuan military power she controlled. The Kul Tiran fleet is powerful, organized, and highly devoted to her cause, a Leviathan beneath the waves simply waiting for her orders.

_This book of hers should really be bound. It would be far too easy to lose or damage the pages._

Nathanos melts into the sofa. "You know them all. What's the point of studying more?" Even when living, he was never fond of academic pursuits, preferring to hunt and fish and wrestle. His tactical abilities were blessedly innate. "I'd rather talk about the peers and their meetings. Lilian is going to kill Velen if we don't explicitly tell her not to."

"Tell her I said no," Sylvanas smirks. "Though I'd like to try to raise a draenei."

Lilian's position on the Reparations Council is a source of some concern to Sylvanas. A great warrior the Forsaken rogue may be, but she has limited experience politicking and was never known for her subtlety. The Scarlet Crusade didn't train her to be a diplomat, only a weapon against the Scourge.

On top of that, Lilian developed quite a grudge against her for threatening Thomas Zelling, the traitor that he is. To Lilian's eyes, the former tidesage simply disappeared, arrested after a very public denouncement of his betrayal. She runs a gauntleted finger across the rim of her glass. It would have been easier to put an arrow in his chest for his role in returning Derek Proudmoore to Kul Tiras, but instead she gave him another task, one nearly as dangerous as Bloodhoof's: return to Boralus and keep tabs on Calia Menethil.

Thus far his reports are uneventful, barring Menethil's closeness to the Proudmoore family, particularly Derek. It would undoubtedly prove problematic in the future. She briefly wonders if Zelling ever managed to return to his own family after they spurned his undead form, but she quickly rebukes the thought. The Zellings are Alliance-born, and would harbor their hatred and fear of the Forsaken until she turned them herself. That she knew with vicious certainty.

Sylvanas wonders how Jaina feels about Calia's new body, undead but Lightforged, as if that somehow makes her less of an abomination. Perhaps it does. Her skin is intact, not ripped asunder at the chest and stretched haphazardly across a skeletal mockery of her living form, all gaunt and sharp. But for her porcelain skin and glowing eyes, Calia Menethil appears alive, angelic even in her undeath.

Would that the Lich King had been a naaru instead, would that her soul had been flayed by Holy Light, would that the Alliance had held her safe...

She bites the inside of her cheek, red eyes darkening. The thoughts prickle at her mind, ugly, jealous things that make her regret ever draining that fox. Sylvanas still tastes the remnants of its spirit and all the emotions that come with it. She gulps down the rest of her drink, washing the taste from her mouth, and refocuses on Jaina's notes.

"Back to questions," she says. "No more distractions."

* * *

Maiev feels a burning in her chest: infinite, roiling, throbbing with the beat of her heart. The makeshift litter rocks back and forth with every step of the tauren carrying her as the winter sun burns brightly overhead. Through her haze, the daylight brings a rush of relief.

She dozes in and out as their pace slows-- walking over snow-slick ground is dangerous, her mother taught her that in the northern forests of Teldrassil-- and her head lolls to one side. She wheezes as she breathes, lungs crackling with each inhale. Her left hand is atrophied, completely numb where Tyrande's arrow pierced her. 

Milky white eyes survey the world around her, dizzy and weak. She wills herself to stay awake, hunting for a glimpse of Tyrande among the tauren procession. Every second of consciousness is a battle, and Maiev eventually loses. Her prey is hidden as her eyes close.

When she wakes again it is dark, and starlight streaks across an obsidian sky. A hand rests on her neck, impossibly hot, or maybe her skin itself is the thing that burns. Tyrande rests beside her, bodies pressed together intimately on the flimsy bed, uncaring of the tauren that peer at her around a central fire.

_She is still with me. But it is night. She is dangerous, different at night._

"Tyrande," Maiev rasps. She coughs violently, every muscle aching with the motion. She can hardly hold her head up for more than a breath.

Tyrande's eyes snap open, black holes reflecting no light, her irises as wide as Ash'alah's in pitch darkness. A warm hand moves to Maiev's cheek, stroking the high cheekbones as she shushes her. She props herself up on an elbow, allowing her hand to roam Maiev's neck and ears and hair, tender and slow.

Beneath a pile of heavy blankets, Maiev can still feel the chill of the night air, but Tyrande wears only her sleeveless silver dress, no coat or cloak to be seen. They lay on the edge of the rudimentary campsite, separated from the tauren by a large white lump several feet away that must be Ash'alah.

"Where are we?"

"A pass in the Stonetalon Mountains, a week from Thunder Bluff," she whispers in Darnassian. Tyrande touches the tip of her nose to Maiev's cheek, and murmurs, "I've missed you, my warden." Hearing her native language is a comfort to Maiev, but the admission startles her. Her head pounds.

Tyrande's soft mouth hovers inches above her own, her breath ghosting past her lips. Maiev's eyes dart away, suddenly self-conscious of the tauren loitering nearby; she can't see Bloodhoof but she knows he's there, watching. _If he had any sense at all he'd have killed us both._

Still, she wants to kiss her, wrap her arms around her waist and relish the weight of her body, and the little noises she makes when they embrace. She needs to be protected, both from herself and from others, and Maiev never abandons a cause, regardless of the shrieking muscles of her weak, weak body.

A steel-hardened line cuts through her mind: she shouldn't be fooled, shouldn't be attached, because whatever this Tyrande is, she is not the Tyrande from before. She is a coward and a madwoman and Elune took away her healing, her highest, holiest gift, and replaced it with a poison-tipped arrow.

As her long braid brushes the cold ground, Tyrande looks as sweet as she was in the mornings in their rundown farmhouse, resting peacefully beside her after the moon had run its course and the first glow of dawn filtered through thin white curtains. But the lines are blurring around her now, as if something sinister dances around the edges of her form. The difference between Tyrande and the Night Warrior grows muddled and foggy in Maiev's bleary vision.

Even flinching away exhausts her.

In the old days, only Shandris gave Maiev any measure of her respect or time, the foolish, bleeding heart that she was. Sentinels always lacked the discipline and strength of Wardens. And Malfurion never quite forgave her for the old wounds she'd opened up on him, the lies and zealotry and interference, all for the sake of catching his criminal brother. But Tyrande tolerated her, annoying her most when she knowingly smiled at her vitriol, patient and unbothered. Even then, Tyrande's haughty calm boiled her blood.

"You need to stay with me," Tyrande breathes, her voice as reverent as it was in the Temple of Elune, cantillating the holy texts for her believers.

The blackness in her eyes swallows Maiev whole, but there is a creeping, tiny tone in her voice that can only belong to the priestess, not the Night Warrior; a tinge of desperate, aching loneliness that belongs to Tyrande Whisperwind alone.

_Will she remember any of this? Will she go back to how she was before we lost our home?_

In her illness, Maiev has no sense of direction. She cannot recall why they need to go to Thunder Bluff, though she thinks Baine may have explained it to her once, unless that was simply a dream. She wanders aimlessly, carried by others literally and figuratively, knowing only that she wants her vengeance, her justice for Teldrassil, and the Night Warrior will help her get it. Her people deserve it; Tyrande deserves it.

Maiev's heart and lungs burn like wildfire, the puddles of Priestshood tainting her blood like tar in a river. She can barely keep her eyes open, so great is her pain, but she croaks, "I'm not going anywhere."

The flicker of distant firelight plays against Tyrande's skin, a shifting orange mask that splits her face in two. "May I kiss you?" she asks.

Maiev's pulse screams. They have kissed before, many times, but Tyrande has never asked for permission, not even when she soothed her after countless nightmares of fel-eyed demons and an infinite prison cell in which she could walk a lifetime but end up right back where she started. Tyrande's kisses have always felt temporary, a mark of stolen time they shared.

"You may," she says, surprised at the nervousness that quivers inside her.

Delicately, Tyrande presses their lips together, feverishly hot despite the winter air. Her touch holds none of her normal lust, only the simple, dreadful longing of contact. She lays her head on Maiev's shoulder, watching her, as if compelled to be as close to her side as possible. She chastely rests her arm across Maiev's stomach, eyes drinking in her scars.

Maiev feels the panic of hope, the sense of permanence she's always chased and never found, the sweetness of some warped version of love. Maybe Tyrande will still want her after Sylvanas Windrunner's blood cleanses them both. 

But the moon is rising, and the priestess will fade. Maiev wonders when all of this is said and done, and Sylvanas has paid for her mountain of sins, who will remain by her side? Will Elune take back the Night Warrior with an eruption of divine salvation? Will the goddess leave anything left of the woman who proclaimed her power with unwavering faith? In the end, she knows there will be death or victory, and she can find respite in that ultimatum.

Tyrande contains multitudes, and Maiev will not abandon any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maiev got the 'rona.


	19. Liadrin, Jaina, Taelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love mood whiplash.
> 
> Rommath is Freckle from The Gay and Wondrous Life of Caleb Gallo. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbhcRKsRwFM

"It's too early for you to be bullying the Blood Knights," Rommath drawls. He sits beneath a red parasol, legs crossed on the wooden benches lining the training ring.

Liadrin pants in the center of the ring, drenched in sweat, nose bloodied from where she'd been clipped by a punch she didn't quite deflect, much to her embarrassment. She laid out her three captains, now groaning and heaving in the sand, each nursing injuries of their own. She would need to stretch tonight after this sparring match. Her axe kick felt tight.

"Five minutes, gentlemen. Then back in. No healing." Liadrin blows a stray hair out of her eyes and faces her audience of one. "I'm training. What do you want?"

He waggles a finger at her, "You look like a sugar cookie covered in all that sand. Shame there's not a lucky lady here to admire your handiwork." When she doesn't smile, Rommath blinks long eyelashes at her impassively. He says, "You're in a mood."

Liadrin takes a deep drink from her water skin, wiping her bloody chin as she finishes. "Why don't you join me in the ring, Rommath?" she says. "You could use a beating."

"No, I don't think I will." He smiles, "If I wanted a roughening up, I'd ask Lor'themar to manhandle me."

Liadrin scowls, "If you could never speak again about what you do in the bedroom, that would be ideal."

"Mmm. You asked." He rises to his feet delicately, eyeing the shirtless Blood Knights as they slouch out of the ring, two of them still doubled-over from where she struck with particular fervor.

"Eyes up," she snaps. "They're not meat."

"Could've fooled me." He leans an elbow on the wooden fence, cradling his parasol. "You're being so dreadfully mean today. I take it that wedding planning with King Anduin went poorly? This is why I didn't want to be part of the first wave of peers. Give me someone less... high profile. Someone who doesn't care so much."

Liadrin rolls her eyes as she towels off the base of her neck. "You just want someone you can impress with your bullshit."

"I do love to dazzle," he admits. "But you haven't told me why you're pouting."

"I don't pout," she sneers, picking sand out of a bloodied knuckle. It is the same hand that pommeled Valeera Sanguinar three days prior. The rogue is out-of-control, a nuisance and menace to her own king. She has a beautiful face, a body crafted by the gods, and the dangerous vanity to match. Liadrin crushes the moment of reoccurring guilt she feels for desecrating something so lovely. No doubt Valeera counts on exactly that sort of hesitation.

No, she would not be swayed by her lips and simpering flirtations. Liadrin would remain formal, dutiful, and steadfast. She would not be fooled by that sad little look in her eyes, or the loneliness and fear plain on her face when she stumbled through a conversation in Thalassian. But the priestess in Liadrin's heart died down slowly that day, and she kept Valeera near her for over an hour, sitting a safe enough distance that she could watch her and keep her awake without invading the space of her body any more than she already had.

She got the distinct, _infuriating_ impression that Valeera was unused to being treated respectfully by strangers.

"You _do_ pout," Rommath says. "It just comes in the form of you beating the shit out of your little friends there. Did something happen?"

_Valeera Sanguinar happened. I hurt her, she deserved it, and it still didn't feel good._

The woman is mutable, liquid, unsteady, like the line of cherry-red blood that dripped down her cheekbone in Stormwind. It took Liadrin a long moment after dragging her unconscious body to the sofa to realize that she felt extreme guilt for hurting her so brutally. The emotion was a shock: she never regretted doing the right thing and, in that particular case, there could be no doubt that she acted appropriately.

_She looked anxious and lost. Like she needed help. She can't even speak her native tongue properly._

At the Peer Meeting, she'd glanced around the Dalaran ballroom between unhappy glares at Vereesa Windrunner and annoyed frowns at Anduin Wrynn, wondering if she'd catch a glimpse of Valeera scouting the area. But she did not. Though, there was a single moment just before she left when Liadrin stood against a wall, away from the crowd, where she felt the air shift around her. She dared not consecrate the ground again, both because of the commotion it would cause and because Valeera's feet likely hadn't healed from the last time, but when she turned to face the sensation it vanished. It was likely her imagination, as unused as it was.

"Nothing happened. Wrynn is overly friendly but it went fine."

"He can be overly friendly with me any day," Rommath mutters.

Liadrin frowns, "Has Lor'themar heard you say that?"

"Of course. He agrees without question. The High King is a fine looking young man, much like his father. Besides, it's like looking at a nice pair of shoes. You can admire them without wanting to fuck them, Liadrin. Though maybe that's what you really need: a good fu-."

She latches her bloody fist onto his parasol, an unyielding vice grip. "Sit down or I will sit you down."

He daintily takes a seat. "Look," he sighs, one hand raised in conciliation, "Lor'themar and I need you in the Inner Sanctum as soon as you're free. The trade meeting is this afternoon and we're having issues getting supplies in and out of Kalimdor. Something's happening at the Orgrimmar docks, but we don't have any useful information yet."

The side of her mouth tugs down in displeasure. "You suspect Alliance interference?"

"No, surprisingly. I think it's one of our own being problematic. Regardless, you need to be informed in the event we ask you to speak with your handsome little priest king about it."

Her Blood Knights file back into the ring, haggard but resolute. She wants another round or two with them before she'll feel content with their progress. Their first bout was a rout, as they usually are when she participates.

"I'll be there in an hour," she says. She reties her ponytail, turning toward her captains.

Rommath eyes her up and down, "Please shower first. You're filthy."

"No, I don't think I will," Liadrin says with a small smile, jogging back to her soldiers.

* * *

They mirror each other in the soft morning light of the Keep's tiled dining hall, still as statues on opposite sides of the eighteen-chair table. They are close enough to reach out and take each other's hands, but they do not. Jaina and Calia sit with their fingers laced in their laps, backs ramrod straight, blonde hair elegantly swept out of their faces and bound in a neat braid and bun, respectively. They share the unspoken words of mutual grief and shared sorrows, neither of them ready to address the multitude of agonies, of lost brothers and fathers and kingdoms. Instead, they speak of weddings.

Calia ignores the small cup of coffee before her, except where her hands idly trace the handle. Jaina confirmed with Derek that she still drank it black- that she drank at all- but she didn't seem in the mood today.

She says, "I appreciate your offer, Jaina. I really do. Not everyone has been so willing to accept what I've become, and I sometimes feel quite isolated." She turns to face a curious blackbird sitting behind the glass of a wide window, her eyes eggshell white. "But I will have to pass on your fitting today. And the wedding. Under different circumstances I would rejoice for you, but you understand my need for distance, I'm sure."

Her voice is smooth and regal, a tone Jaina could only hope to mimic in her finer moments: as rich as chocolates fit for a queen. A lifetime ago Jaina harbored such admiration for Arthas' elder sister, such reverence for her quick wit and cool head that it bordered on a crush. Calia always expressed such fondness for her, such pride in Jaina's academic pursuits, that she found herself trying to excel for a smile from Calia alone. The Menethils were magnetic in their own ways.

But that was a lifetime ago; they were different people then. Jaina finds she has no more room for those feelings, only the tightness in her jaw from constant clenching, and the bags beneath her eyes from another near-sleepless night. She startled awake before the sun rose, her heart pounding, visions of her father walking her down the aisle, flesh waterlogged and skeletal, his pendant heavy as a millstone around her neck. It was a new nightmare, but one she should have anticipated.

"I do understand," says Jaina. "Please know that you always have a home here in Boralus, much the same as you always made me feel welcome in Lordaeron."

Calia smiles, graceful and guarded. She says, "It's hard to think of those times and imagine it all playing out so gruesomely. My biggest fear in those days was ruining a cross-stitch, or miscalculating a line in a ledger." She raises her eyebrows thoughtfully. "In retrospect, I'm shocked my father trusted me with any portion of the kingdom's finances, no matter how minuscule. I suppose he thought accounting was women's work."

"You've always had a keen head for math," Jaina gently replies. King Terenas was a harsh man with antiquated ideas. Even Arthas questioned his father's love, and he was the definition of a true prince and a righteous man, cast straight from the mold of a storybook hero.

_Until the end. Until Stratholme and Quel'Thalas._

The tip of Frostmourne's wound on Sylvanas' chest barely crested the surface of her bathwater, a dark blue gash against lighter lavender skin. The Alliance rumors, though usually exaggerated, said it rent her from sternum to naval with a matching twin on her back.

Jaina thumbs the sterling silver teaspoon on the table. Sylvanas wasn't so frightening in the bath: she looked small and vulnerable. But Jaina supposes that would be true of anyone who was interrupted while naked in the privacy of their own home. Jaina had only spent one night in Orgrimmar, surprised by Sylvanas' tepid hospitality and self-deprecation, both far cries from the arrogant, sneering woman who first presented the Unification Treatise a month and a half ago.

She was even more surprised by the sparseness of her closet, and apparent lack of comfortable clothing. While Jaina rarely slept well, she believed in being comfortable in her down time. Ceremonial armor is oppressive and itchy, and she'd rather not spend a second longer in it if she could wear pajamas instead.

_She doesn't even have a robe. What kind of elf doesn't have a robe?_

Calia says, "Father never cared much for my mind. To him I was most valuable because I could ensure a viable political marriage. At one point he had designs to ship me off to little Anduin, but Varian and Tiffin wouldn't have it." 

"But he was an infant," Jaina purses her lips. "A male infant."

"My preferences had nothing to do with it," says Calia coolly. "Besides, you of all people should understand the necessity of doing undesirable things for the sake of your kingdom." 

A month ago she would have agreed in her stoic, long-suffering way that marrying Sylvanas Windrunner was a step further than undesirable: loathsome, shameful, and repulsive sprang to mind. But she hasn't been cruel, barring their violent clash atop the Keep two weeks ago, and she hasn't been fearsome, except when she held Jaina against her body in the Warchief's study, hissing the condemnation of her hypocrisy and hunger in her ears, fangs bared, arms locked like a cage around her.

But then, there is the half-hidden smile of a woman impressed with her own charisma, pleased to the brim with her deft flirtations. Confident, not conceited, that her suave skills from before the war have not failed her. Jaina finds that she likes this Sylvanas the most: the one who allows the tiniest bit of hope to filter through an otherwise dark forest of self-loathing.

There is a clear partition of Sylvanas in her mind, a before and after segmentation, one part living, two parts dead. Sylvanas the valiant Ranger-General, Sylvanas the monstrous Dark Lady, and Sylvanas her fiancée, a triptych of muted colors and memories that paint a picture of rising and falling and balancing-out, all grim when viewed through the lens of what-could-have-been. Sylvanas has been shown no mercy, and has shown none in return.

Jaina wonders if people view her that way too: a jumbled, elusive mystery that has somehow been combined into one person. Jaina the tragic Lady of Theramore, Jaina the Archmage and Lord Admiral, Jaina the Warqueen. The thought is a discomforting one.

"I didn't know that about your father." Jaina lowers her eyes, "Why did he allow me and Arthas to-"

"Oh, come now, sweet Jaina. Now is not the time for humility. With your bloodline, your magic, and your looks, my father would have been an imbecile to deny that pairing. I suspect if things had soured between you and Arthas more naturally, he'd have forced me upon you instead. And look at you now: the paragon of the Alliance. The only suitable equal of the _Warchief_."

Jaina flinches at her biting tone, unable to clear her head or internalize her words. She feels sixteen again, out of her depth, shocked at the notion that Calia, not Arthas, could have become her betrothed. Another branching timeline, perhaps one that would have made them both happy. But it's gone now, and neither of them wants to linger in the past.

Familiar shame washes over her, an emotion she'd prepared to feel when she first asked Calia to visit. She needed to extend an invitation to her fitting and wedding in person, knowing well that Calia would refuse both. Their friendship had fizzled long ago, another victim of time and distance and tragedy. Now Calia is dead and Jaina, with full knowledge and consent, is marrying the woman who killed her. The chasm between them grows.

"Did you know," Calia murmurs, "she was once a suitable match for the heirs of Lordaeron? For me or Arthas, it didn't matter to father. He kept a list in his desk drawer. All of the Windrunners were on it. He liked the idea of tying loyalties to an elven kingdom, for all of his talk of humanity's prowess."

The thought of Sylvanas being forced to marry Arthas makes her stomach turn. He murdered her, _ruined_ her.

_Sylvanas would have never consented to that marriage. Not to either of them._

"Then I am glad you still have the freedom to choose for yourself," says Jaina.

The nature of political marriages is uncaring, born of necessity and a desire for mutual protection. But Jaina wonders if at least some considerations could be made to allay a poor match. Authentic compatibility is usually unattainable in these circumstances, though Jaina knows with absolute certainty that she and Sylvanas would both suffer through it regardless. She saw that promise on her dour face from the start.

She wonders, though, why Sylvanas did not suggest Khadgar or Ansirem when considering a powerful, Alliance-allied mage for her counterpart. Perhaps the rumors were true and Sylvanas, like Calia, exclusively preferred the company of women, so much so that she would refuse to share her space with a man. It took Jaina only a few visits with her fiancée to fully banish her prior inklings about Nathanos and Sylvanas being romantically involved. They are close friends, trusted allies, and nothing more. The idea of them together is almost laughable to her now.

The idea of _anyone_ with Nathanos brings a smile to her lips. _What poor soul would want that musty old bulldog?_

Jaina's amusement fades in an instant as Calia shifts in her chair and says, "I've hardly a choice. Who would want this?" She gestures to her face, lovely and resentful. "I'm not even undead like the rest of them: I wasn't raised knowing Gutterspeak, I'm not welcomed by the Forsaken. I'm the only one of my kind and, despite being raised in the Light, most in the Alliance still view me as an undead abomination." Her lips flatten, "My death hurt a great deal, you know. I am not a warrior. I grew up unaccustomed to pain, unlike my brother. And you."

"I'm sorry, Calia," Jaina's eyes lower. "It's hard at first, to adjust."

Calia's face flashes with something like sympathy, quickly suppressed and hardened into a shell of porcelain bitterness.

"Her arrow missed my heart. Did you know that? She missed my heart. For one so famously skilled in archery, _certainly_ she could have aimed a truer shot. _Certainly_ , she didn't intend to leave me bleeding out in front of my king and my people like a hunted doe." Her voice wavers as she touches her sternum between her breasts, "I could feel it inside me... I could feel it when my heart beat, up until it stopped."

The buzzing in Jaina's ears increases in volume, a cacophony of stress and agitation under her tongue, but she doesn't have a good response-- not in defense of Calia, not in defense of Sylvanas-- so she says nothing at all. Her hands sit impassively in her lap, face cool and inscrutable. Her teeth ache from grinding them; it isn't even mid-morning and she feels overcome by a rush of exhaustion.

At her lack of response, Calia's heat fades. Her eyebrows knit together, guilty and sorrowful again. "I'm sorry, Jaina. I am being unfair to you." Calia stares at her hands, her skin an unnatural ivory. "I know your sacrifice. I know you're nigh solely responsible for bringing us peace. I'm very proud of you, and I would like to think that I was brave enough to have done the same, had the task fallen on my head."

Calia turns back to the blackbird, chirping and bouncing across the stone sill outside. "Though it seems a misnomer now: heir to Lordaeron. Ruins above, a cesspool of blight below. But, like much of my life and resurrection, I had little say in the matter of protecting my home. I'm fortunate that Derek has supported me through the trials of undeath as much as I've supported him. And he helps with the... challenge your marriage will pose on a personal level to me."

Calia exhales, "He is quicker to forgive her crimes for the sake of peace. I might too, in his place. She did not kill him, and she offered him a choice."

Jaina's eyes flicker up to her face. "What choice?"

Calia cants her head in surprise, as if she is perplexed to find something Jaina doesn't know, let alone something so fundamental about her brother's resurrection and her fiancée's abilities. She speaks slowly, "Her puppets, the Val'kyr. They cannot force a soul into undeath. They offer them a choice, and Derek chose to return. I've asked him why he chose the way he did, and he says he cannot remember. I suspect he wanted to return home."

Jaina feels like she is falling, sinking, her head dipping beneath the surface of unseen water, drowning in all the things she doesn't know. She'd always believed that Sylvanas raised many of the Forsaken against their wills, some grateful for their second chance, others furious at their warped undeath, forced into servitude by the Banshee Queen. Jaina pictures Delaryn Summermoon, the night elf turned Dark Ranger, and the doleful dreaminess of her face, a counterpoint to Sylvanas' overt, sharp disapproval. Somehow, when they shared a room, it always seemed that Sylvanas suffered more for it.

_Why would she choose to return to the side of the woman who killed her? Who destroyed her home?_

"Are you certain," Jaina asks, "that the Val'kyr cannot resurrect the unwilling?"

Calia looks her in the eyes, voice haunted and adamant. "Yes. Only two things can raise you against your will: the Lich King and the Light."

Her words cut like broken glass on Jaina's skin. She closes her eyes, willing away the kaleidoscope images of Arthas and Calia and Sylvanas in all their different iterations.

Calia rises to her feet. "It's time I leave. Thank you for the invitation, and for understanding my refusal." She pauses, her face softening. She looks for an instant like the princess Jaina once admired so deeply. "I hope you find a shred of happiness in this peace, Jaina. You deserve it."

Jaina steadies her breathing and her voice. She murmurs, "As do you, Calia."

Calia leaves her cup untouched on the table, elegant robes sweeping behind her as she strides out of the room. The Honor Guard will escort her back home to a small apartment on the outskirts of the harbor, a quiet place where Derek is her only neighbor and no one else bothers them. Jaina sips the dregs of her own coffee, head lowered, and tries to gather her thoughts for the afternoon. Today she will wear her wedding dress for the first time.

* * *

"All right, lads," says Taelia, her breath fogging in front of her face. "Do you know what you're _not_ going to fuck up for me?"

"Ahm gonna fook everything up fer ye," says Peanut, blowing into his hands for warmth. He never wears his gloves, insisting they impede his ability to draw his sword swiftly.

"No-"

"The visit?" asks Mitzy. The gangly man leans on his spear, his helmet cocked crookedly to one side.

"Yes, the-"

"Nae, yer expectations er too high," grumbles Peanut, now distracted by picking crusty food off his tabard.

"I have to agree," Gannet chimes in. "Probably shouldn't have us around if you're trying to impress a lass, Tae."

Behind him Highpockets nods, his long grey beard rustling against his broad chest. The only time she's ever heard him speak was to his gryphon, Mortimer.

"You normally just don't bring them around at all, and our wives have to tell us about it," Mitzy adds. "And then they dump you for working too much."

"They do not," she scowls. "It just hasn't worked out."

"S'not werkin' out onna count of yer werkin' too much," Peanut chides.

"Listen," Taelia says firmly. "I really like her and I don't have a choice about you four eventually crossing paths with her. She's a Ranger-Captain and will be guarding the Warchief when she visits for dinner, and that's probably going to happen soon, maybe even before the wedding. We'll be with our ladies," she nods to the door of the tailor's shop, "as usual."

Above them, two Silver Covenant archers patrol the rooftops at Vereesa Windrunner's orders, largely ignoring the Honor Guard below. The women's faces are cool and unemotional, and Taelia wonders how she can find Sylvanas' Dark Rangers more friendly than Vereesa's standoffish guards. Vereesa herself only came marginally more alive in front of Jaina and Katherine as they greeted her outside, but even that response was limited.

_Though the high elves never stripped me down for entertainment,_ she thinks. _I guess it wasn't so bad, all things considered._

She supposes, like many fighting forces, they adopt the attitude of their commanding officer. It is strange to think that Sylvanas, not Vereesa, has been the most cordial Windrunner to Taelia. Granted, she's never even met Alleria, only seen her from a distance. She is as disturbingly attractive as her sisters.

Her own patrol squadron is made up of old salt, as they call themselves. Four former sailors who'd since settled down and started families, but demonstrated enough fighting prowess in their heydays to join the Honor Guard. Taelia is the youngest of them, younger even than Mitzy and his peach fuzz, but she technically ranks higher. Sir Crestfall had trained her beautifully and, though she has awful seasickness that no quantity of ginger candy could cure, she knows her way around the harbor. Being the ward of House Proudmoore and the protégé of Boralus' harbormaster has its advantages, and Taelia always wants to rise to every occasion.

"How are you going to show her a good time?" asks Gannet, ever practical. "What do undead girls even do for fun?"

"Probably eat babies," says Mitzy.

"They do _not_ eat babies, and if you say that again I'll punch your lights out, dim as they are," Taelia sighs.

"Aye, she'll beat tae shite outta ye, Mitz," Peanut spits on the cobblestone street. "She av afore. Ev'ry time, in fact."

Mitzy pulls a face. "I know it. It's a wonder with those stubby arms she can hit me at all, but that _warhammer_. Stars above."

"Depths below," finishes Gannet.

"She hits like a whale topside."

"But really," Gannet refocuses the group, as usual. "How do we tell which one she is? They all look," he gives a circular gesture before settling diplomatically on, "similar."

"I know what you mean, but don't say that," Taelia frowns. "It's racist. Or life-ist or something. They're all very different. I'll introduce you."

_Anya's the prettiest one_ , she does not say.

Mitzy grins, "Yeah, they probably think we all look the same too, right Highpockets?"

Highpockets towers over them all, his barrel-belly bouncing as he quietly chortles.

The front door of the shop opens with a jingle, and Lucille Waycrest sticks her head into the cold, damp afternoon air. The guards straighten up immediately, all except Mitzy, whose helmet remains crooked. Lucille smiles at them, "There you are, Taelia. Jaina wants you to see her dress. Come in." She peruses the Honor Guard. "You're doing a fine job out here, gentlemen."

"Oh, thank you kindly, ma'am," says Gannet.

"Right kind ev ye," says Peanut.

Taelia slides inside, trying to avoid the rest of their sucking up. The whole of Boralus' military loves Lucille Waycrest.

The tailor's boutique is warm, plush, and expensive, full of ornate dresses and high heels that would cost Taelia a month's salary to afford. She doesn't shop often, nor does she daydream about dresses and makeup and pretty things like some girls do. _Well, I do think a lot about one pretty thing,_ she smiles.

Sitting around a circular showing room full of mirrors in the rear of the store are Katherine Proudmoore and Vereesa Windrunner, one wearing her trademark mysterious smile and the other eyeing shelves of fabric, only half-interested. They both look as refined as ever, and Taelia feels very out of place in her clunky armor and wet boots.

From behind a thick blue curtain on a pedestal she hears Jaina's voice, "I'm not a flirt like you and Tandred."

Katherine gives Taelia a small wave and motions for her to take a seat. She says, "I think you are, darling, and so is Derek. You're both just a touch more selective."

Jaina's disembodied voice grumbles a bit, but she doesn't otherwise retort. Lucille follows Taelia into the room, taking a seat on the lush sofa beside her, and enthusiastically says, "We're all here now, Jaina. Show us the dress!"

Jaina pulls back the curtain with a flourish, a self-conscious smile on her face.

At once, Vereesa's breath hitches and Katherine bursts into tears. Taelia's brown eyes widen in awe: she has never seen a dress so sublime.

Only Lucille finds her voice, shaky in its sincerity, "You look magnificent, Jaina."

The outline of the snowy white dress is simple, an elegant shape that hugs Jaina's body, flaring into a short train below her knees. The fabric itself is tulle layered by intricately-worked lace, a mesmerizing, subtle pattern of snowflakes and anchors and sailing ropework. Capped sleeves and a high, collared neckline leave her arms and cleavage bare and, as Jaina slowly pivots, she reveals that her dress also has a deep, form-fitting cutout in the back.

"Wow," says Taelia dumbly, feeling somewhat surprised by her own incoherence. But Jaina seems pleased with her response; she knows it's standard fare for her bodyguard to be left speechless by pretty women.

Vereesa wordlessly hands Katherine a tissue, which she uses to dab at her running mascara. "I know none of this marriage is conventional," the mother of the bride sobs, "but you look so lovely, my Jaina. You are a _vision_."

Jaina smiles at her, stepping gingerly down from the pedestal to hug her, Lucille readjusting her train as she walks. After a quick embrace, Katherine tenderly pushes her away, saying, "No, no! I'll slobber all over it. It's too much." She sits back on the sofa and begins to weep again, more emphatically this time.

"This bodes awfully for me for the wedding," chokes Katherine between sobs. "I can't keep myself together for a second."

Jaina lays a hand on her shoulder, "At least it will be an open bar, mother."

Katherine wipes her eyes, now a blackened mess of dripping makeup, and says, "Thank the gods." 

Jaina turns again, glancing over her shoulder to appraise herself in the mirrors. "I thought it would go nicely with the Archmage's Diadem," she says. She swallows thickly and looks to Vereesa with a touch of uncertainty. She softly asks, "Do you think she'll like it? It's her wedding too."

It takes a moment for Vereesa to smile at her, as if Jaina's words don't immediately process in her mind. But the ripple of joy that just reaches her pale blue eyes is worth the delay. She takes Jaina's hand and quietly says, "I know she will. This dress is striking and sophisticated, and Sylvanas has always found that attractive. She will more than approve of it."

"Good," Jaina nods matter-of-factly. "Now help me out of this thing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaina's dress inspiration: https://madamebridal.com/adrianna-papell-31066-della.html
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kind comments! It's given me so much motivation for writing this story, and I especially love the lengthy book report style insights and enthusiastic keyboard smashing.
> 
> I'm going into a weird time at work (thanks, COVID-19!) where I'll be pulling extra hours, so my already-bizarre posting schedule might get more bizarre. I don't expect long delays or a hiatus or anything that extreme, but it might take me more than a week to get Chapter 20 out and to respond to comments. Thanks for y'all's endless support and patience! Stay safe!


	20. Anya, Thalyssra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in a very particular mood right now. I am PINING. I am YEARNING.
> 
> Thanks again for your incredible patience, everyone! It is so very appreciated. I have two more weeks of a weird work schedule but am still writing and editing and plotting gay shit regularly. Enjoy a 9k chapter.
> 
> TW: mild body horror in the Thalyssra POV. Being a nightfallen is hell.

The day is too busy for Anya's liking. Too many people coming and going from the city and her jumping from task to task with no down time to simply watch them, to develop a gut feeling for their tones and intentions.

The Trade Meeting introductions worry Anya in her unemotional, inexpressive way. She eyes the Nightborne woman, Ly'leth Lunastre, as they gather: short and willowy for a shaldorei, with a square jaw and striking cheekbones, and a noble set to her shoulders that bespoke her aristocratic upbringing. Anya read her report that morning: the First Arcanist trusted this woman explicitly, and she'd been instrumental in deposing Elisande in the liberation of Suramar. Anya remembers most of the nobles of Quel'Thalas, and their penchant for forgetting both their morals and the lower classes in times of trouble. This white-haired woman stands alone, doused in jewelry and silk, and looks no different, but Anya trusts the Forsaken intelligence reports and knows that appearances can be deceiving.

Ly'leth is shrewd and plays her part well; Anya can see this clearly as her light purple eyes cut across the room, scalpel sharp, gathering information rapidly on the strangers that surround her as efficiently as Anya read her dossier that morning. She seems to file away the data on Lor'themar and Gallywix as she diplomatically greets them both, curtsying gracefully like she's being presented at court, her elegant navy dress draped around her. Lor'themar responds with a smile and flourish in turn, but Gallywix awkwardly bows, annoyed at having to stand up. Ly'leth accepts the goblin's displeasure in stride, her face as undisturbed as ever, and Anya begins to see how valuable she must have been as a spy during the Nightborne Rebellion.

Ly'leth's cool eyes linger the longest on her new bodyguard, Delaryn- who towers over her like a crooked weeping willow- with a touch more curiosity and a touch less sharpness.

_She's never seen an undead night elf before. Does Delaryn remind her of how she's changed too?_

Delaryn does not look well, a fact lamented among the Rangers, and does not meet her guest's eyes. Nathanos drags her everywhere he goes lately- his taller shadow, the manifestation of his guilt- and she strides along behind him in relative silence. Her footfalls are loud compared to the rest of them; she still walks like a Sentinel, not a Ranger, though her once-muscular form continues to atrophy.

Just last week, Nathanos ordered her to wear a winter cloak on outside rounds, her hair and boots slick with melting snow. She told him she didn't have one, and that she couldn't feel the cold anyway. Nathanos harrumphed, citing the unacceptability of her predicament, and gave her his cloak. He relayed this lamentable tale to the Rangers, who procured more clothing for the tallest of them, and they unanimously decided that she needed a task to occupy her.

Cyndia hoped that work would wake Delaryn up the way it woke her after the Lich King first raised them. Anya does not enjoy remembering those days, the blood and hunger and fury, but she remembers the joy in Marrah's face when Cyndia began to recover from the torture of undeath, improving little by little each day after Sylvanas freed them. 

Anya and Nathanos had spoken to Delaryn about their expectations for the meeting. She'd never been assigned as an Orgrimmar escort before, and didn't know what the work entailed. It is, perhaps more than anything, a navigational position, often an unnecessary one for the visitors familiar with the Horde's capital. Ensure the guest makes it safely to the meeting location, and be prepared to run messages on their behalf. Attend them, keep them happy. It is a tradition from old Quel'Thalas that Sylvanas first brought to the Forsaken ranks, and now the rest of the Horde has adopted the custom.

Ly'leth, while not as particularly grating as Gallywix, might prove difficult to handle. She has never visited before and she is, after all, a noblewoman. Above all else, Delaryn is now responsible for Ly'leth's personal safety, but knowing that she was a former captain of the Darnassian City Guard, Anya did not feel the need to explain that duty to her. She could see clearly that Delaryn would protect her as a matter of habit: the blood of a soldier ran through her veins, her lost dreaminess aside. This new task seems to return at least a portion of her focus, her distant gaze now replaced by something clearer, though her eyes remain fixed to the ground. 

So the six of them stand around the oak table in the chilly meeting room in Grommash Hold, a Ranger stationed beside each of the visitors.

Before taking her seat around the circular table, Ly'leth turns to Delaryn with a pointed look, her right hand daintily extended, palm down. In Darnassian she murmurs, "Inu-dal-dorini osatal da bandi."

For a moment they stand in silence: Ly'leth waiting for some response with an emotionless, inscrutable expression, and Delaryn lingering on the opulent pearl rings and silver chains dripping from her fingers. Her eyes dart about, surprised and anxious-- and something more. 

_Honored?_ She stands straight in a way Anya has never seen. 

Then with an inhale, Delaryn takes Ly'leth's hand and bows at the waist, pressing her ornate knuckles gently against her own forehead. She replies as if reciting a poem, her voice scratchy from disuse, "Shan-danara, ande'dalah serrar da rhok anatole'na dal."

Nathanos stares at the elves with a question plain on his face, then looks to Anya for an explanation, but she merely shrugs. Lor'themar, however, has turned entirely away from them, his one uncovered eye pointedly staring at the wall as if desperately trying to afford them privacy. Gallywix watches openly, only marginally less bored now some ancient elven ritual is playing out before him.

Anya's Darnassian is not fluent like Sylvanas', but she gathers that this is an old, traditional greeting for a bodyguard and her charge, something like an oath of fealty. Her understanding is flimsy and they both spoke so lowly that she struggled to hear, but their words are close enough to Thalassian that she can manage an ungainly translation.

_"In you I place my trust and life."_

_"May my bow and blade protect you always, honored lady."_

Delaryn gently releases Ly'leth's hand, rises to her full height, shoulders back, and politely pulls out the chair for her charge. Ly'leth takes her seat in silence, apparently content with her guard's performance, and Delaryn stands at attention at her right side, suddenly far more attentive than Anya or Nathanos. 

They glance at each other again. _Perhaps we should not use Delaryn for escort duty,_ Anya thinks. _Or maybe she's regaining her faculties, starting with night elf traditions._

She frowns. Loralen would know what was going on. She resolves to ask Taelia the next time they meet, though she sadly cannot predict when that will be. It's possible she knows something of esoteric kaldorei traditions, having worked with their soldiers more recently.

She faintly smiles.

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourself," Nathanos mumbles beside her. "It's not too late to trade."

"It's absolutely too late to trade," Anya whispers. "Good luck with Gallywix."

The goblin waves Nathanos over as if on cue, wildly gesturing whatever inane request strikes his fancy at that moment. Nathanos skulks away as Lor'themar calls the meeting to order, returning a few minutes later with a brazier dragging noisily behind him. Anya notes that he positions it a touch too closely to Gallywix for comfort, and she smiles again.

"As you all know, our main priority remains sussing out whatever or whomever is delaying shipments to and from the Eastern Kingdoms. Ratchet, Gadgetzan, and Bilgewater Port are having no such issues, and we suspect the only affected location is Orgrimmar." 

"Yeah, I did some digging," Gallywix lounges in his chair, leaning away from the fiery brazier. "It's some orc. Calls himself the Commodore. Haven't got a clue who he really is but he's certainly screwing with the trade manifests. Might be aligned with the True Horde. Blockin' everything Alliance-related, comin' in or goin' out."

_The True Horde. The Loyalists. They're going to get us all killed_ , Anya thinks. _For what? Revenge? Returning to a war that no one can win?_

Lor'themar tilts his head, "And the ships' captains are allowing this to continue?"

"Yep, enough are," says Gallywix. "Can't tell ya why. Probably buying them off. We're still lookin' into it."

Ly'leth speaks smoothly, her voice clear and deep, "May I review the ledgers, Trade Prince? I'm rather apt at noting discrepancies, and may find something that will elucidate the situation."

Gallywix eyes her up-and-down, gaze bordering on salacious. He crosses his arms. "Don't trust my numbers there, Lunastre?"

"Jastor-" Nathanos warns, eyebrows furrowed.

"No, Trade Prince. It's simply a matter of thorough bookkeeping," says Ly'leth. "As a new member of this council, I humbly offer you my services with "lookin' into it"."

Gallywix scowls, "You Nightborne think you're so damn smart, comin' in and-"

To Anya's surprise, it is Delaryn who tilts her head gently to one side, voice soft and breathy, "Answer Lady Lunastre's question, Trade Prince." Her wide eyes bore into Gallywix, unblinking. Her face is gaunt and pallid, arms dangling limply at her sides, seeming as close to a corpse as any of the most battered Forsaken.

Gallywix's lips curl into a sneer, unnerved Delaryn's abrupt, distressing focus. After a long pause he says through gritted teeth, "Fine. I don't give a damn what you do with the books. Knock yourself out."

Lor'themar's gaze circles the table before returning to the agenda. In a monotone voice he says, "Thank you for coming to a _peaceable_ decision, Jastor. No doubt we will resolve this issue in a timely manner."

The rest of the meeting passes with little friction, and Gallywix speaks only when directly addressed, his petulant frown evident in every sentence. They speak of the Reparations Council and working hand-in-hand with them whenever their schedules would allow it. They speak of redistributing supplies, and providing war veterans with fertile land and farming equipment for those willing to lay down heir weapons, the first step in combating the famine knocking on their doors. Ly'leth suggests grants for technological and medical innovations, and she and Lor'themar speak at length on the subjects of agriculture, debt, and the economical viability of the peace.

Anya will report their conversation in more detail to Sylvanas later, but for now she is more focused on the way Delaryn's gaze searches the room, awake and alert like a real Ranger, or like the Captain of Darnassus' City Guard. Her red eyes always return to Ly'leth, who sits primly in her chair, as if ensuring that the other woman is not only safe, but comfortable. 

The meeting runs long, later into the night than Anya expected, and it is dark when the Rangers escort their guests to the mage portals. The smell of the portal room is sometimes overwhelming to Anya, a clash of different arcane fragrances, some enjoyable, some overpowering. Today it mostly smells of peppermint.

Just before she leaves, Ly'leth extends her hand to Delaryn, who presses her knuckles to her forehead again. This time there is nothing to recite, but Ly'leth watches Delaryn as she bows, her purple eyes searching and curious. She turns in silence when Delaryn releases her hand, and disappears wordlessly through her portal to Suramar.

The three Dark Rangers stand in the portal room, surrounded by mages who intentionally avoid eye contact, but eavesdrop as well as they weave magic. Delaryn softly says, "I would like to be Lady Lunastre's guard in the future."

Nathanos' head whips around to her, then to Anya. In the months since Delaryn was raised, she has never once requested anything, never expressed any desires for herself. She has never been awake enough to care. The Ranger Lord looks almost excited, eyes pleading with Anya, as if he's forgotten he could simply order her to make assignments as he chose, which he undoubtedly _had_ actually forgotten.

"That can be arranged," Anya says. 

"Quite right," Nathanos agrees.

"Thank you," she says. Delaryn drifts away from them, back to her room or the mess hall, or to wander around the grounds, Anya does not know.

Nathanos places his hands on his hips, seemingly pleased. "That went well," he says. "Gallywix aside."

Anya nods. "Now for the real fun."

"I imagine... that it isn't going well," he heaves a sigh.

The two of them make their way upstairs to the Warchief's suite, and before Nathanos can rush forward to open the door for Anya, the sounds of Abnar Shelley's pleading drift through the stone corridor.

"Please, Dark Lady. It's so late. This is the last set they have. The tailors will need time to make final alterations and we've yet to try any of these on."

Anya resists the urge to smirk. This is exactly what she anticipated.

The first thing she sees as they enter is Sylvanas standing in the middle of her living room, arms crossed, face dark, the sofas, tables and chairs pushed to one wall. She is surrounded by mannequins wearing five wedding dresses and two suits of different styles, a dark purple raincloud in a forest of white. Abnar flits around the dresses, wringing his hands in distress.

"I will not debase myself further. Take them away."

Anya and Nathanos step gingerly around the clothing, careful not to catch their bows on a loose train or lace sleeve.

Nathanos lingers on the dress closest to Sylvanas. "That one is," he pauses. "Puffy."

"It's hideous," says Anya. 

"I am aware," Sylvanas growls. "World peace was not worth this suffering." She turns to her bedroom sullenly, stalking to the study, and leaves them in the dreadful white forest without further explanation.

Half an hour later, after Nathanos finally shooed Abnar and the clothing away with slightly more courtesy than their Dark Lady, Sylvanas reemerges with a letter in her hand. Anya looks up from rearranging the furniture and sees her Ranger-General, sour and grim, ears slicked back against her skull.

"Anya, deliver this directly to Jaina Proudmoore. No invisibility. When she undoubtedly asks, tell her it cannot wait." Sylvanas' mouth draws down at the corners in intense displeasure. Her voice is low, "I am asking for a favor."

A ripple of shock runs down her back, but Anya doesn't dare express it. Sylvanas Windrunner does not ask for favors, not as the Warchief and not as the Ranger-General of Silvermoon. She loathes being indebted, _owing_ someone something, anything, no matter how trivial.

Anya takes the letter and says, "I will, Dark Lady."

She can make an educated guess at what Sylvanas' letter says, but doesn't care to press the issue. It would only upset Sylvanas more, and Anya has always known how to do her job without asking too many questions. She wastes no more time, and presses her palm on the snowflake pattern to activate the portal on the wall, which smells strongly of Jaina's magic when it flairs open.

She steps through the vertigo-inducing feeling of arcane travel, feet steadying in the carpeted hallway of Proudmoore Keep.

Before her stands a man in Kul Tiran armor so tall she tilts her head entirely back to see his eyes, grateful that he didn't lash out on impulse at her abrupt arrival. He is, quite literally, the largest human man she has ever seen, built like a tauren with a large barrel-belly and long grey beard. His sun-spotted face stares down at her and she meets his gaze with a neutral expression, hiding her disappointment that the guard stationed in the hallway tonight is this gargantuan creature and not Taelia.

She extends her arm, clearly showing that she wields no weapon and carries only a letter.

"I have a message for the Lord Admiral from," Anya mentally cycles through various titles for Sylvanas before settling on, "her fiancée."

The man gently extends his meaty hand as if to take the letter, but Anya says, "I must deliver it to her and her alone."

In a rumbling bass voice he replies, "Okay." She counts herself lucky that he takes no offense at her refusal, and turns his back to her. She has no desire to make her acquaintance with the greataxe strapped behind him. The massive man walks quietly for his size, disappearing around a corner into a different room.

Anya stands in the empty hallway, surprised he left her alone. That was a measure of trust she would not have extended in Orgrimmar to any human aside from Taelia, but even then with a certain measure of reluctance. A human could easily be killed in the Horde capital, their body surreptitiously removed from prying eyes. Despite her desire to scout the rest of Proudmoore Keep- she misses the forests and the cities both, the discovery and exploration and sense of wonder she used to regularly feel- she doesn't think pressing her luck by wandering around unattended is prudent. So she roots her feet in the hallway and doesn't move.

When the tall guard returns he is accompanied by Jaina, who wears a tired but patient expression, her bright white hair loose around her shoulders. She wears a plush blue robe and slippers, obviously prepared for bed. Anya realizes abruptly and uncomfortably as she stares at the anchor pendant around her prominent collarbone that Jaina Proudmoore is a gorgeous woman, her look of perpetual exhaustion aside. The Dark Ranger refocuses and hands her the letter.

Before taking it, Jaina says, "Thank you, Highpockets. You're dismissed." The man ambles away silently after a quick bow.

"Hello, Anya," she sighs. She reads the note quickly, her brow furrowed as she scans it. "This needs to happen now? It's late and... lacking in necessary details."

Anya dips her head respectfully, "Forgive me, Lord Admiral. My Dark Lady's request is most urgent. She said you would be doing her a favor."

Jaina's hard expression eases, her face emotionless. Anya recognizes the look. She often wears it when unexpected information comes her way.

"Do you know what this says?" asks Jaina.

"No, Lord Admiral. It was not meant for me."

Jaina hums softly, her weary face contemplative. She folds the letter and places it in her robe pocket then quickly turns. As she strides down the hallway, she says, "Come along. I need to gather a few things before we go to Orgrimmar."

Anya falls in step behind her, suddenly curious about the contents of Sylvanas' letter.

* * *

Thalyssra has been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Jaina Proudmoore to seek her out privately in her calm, collected way and accuse her of tampering with the pairing system in Dalaran. But the days keep passing and the Lord Admiral never appears, never sends a damning letter, and Valtrois repeatedly assures her that nothing will come of it because that sort of accusation is dangerous to the peace. The truth isn't worth the risk, and there is nothing to be gained from confronting it. 

Despite the lingering guilt it had been so simple, so fortuitous. She and Vereesa were almost paired together naturally, nearly last in line, and Thalyssra had simply swapped her own name and Ji Firepaw's. The Pandaren was overjoyed to have drawn Aysa Cloudsinger- he called it divine luck- and Thalyssra thought for a moment that he was right. It wasn't until she saw Jaina's piercing blue eyes locked onto her own that she stumbled, and looked away before her face could betray even more of her crime. 

Today she wakes early in her large bed, white hair tangling around her ears, too anxious and excited to sleep. She takes her coffee and breakfast alone, reviewing her reports in silence, the only noise the shuffling of her feet on the stonework floor of her estate. It is sometimes too quiet in her home, a lonely echo chamber in which she only hears herself, and she longs for the sounds of life and laughter.

Tonight she will meet Vereesa Windrunner in Stormwind for their first peer meeting, though she has no concept of exactly what that entails. Sylvanas didn't offer any expectations or demands outside of the original Unification Treatise, and Vereesa merely promised dinner and a tour of Stormwind. 

Many other leaders view their meetings as formal, stately, solemn things useful only for grandiose diplomatic ties between the Horde and Alliance. She thinks, though, that there really isn't a point in pairing off at all if the peers themselves remain a mystery to one another, and she has always relished the opportunity to learn, especially about other people. While she is undoubtedly more interested in Vereesa than Vereesa is in her, she counts herself quite lucky to have successfully arranged their pairing at all, duplicitous as the ordeal was.

Sometimes she visits Theryn in the Nighthold when she needs to clear her mind, which she absolutely does on this wintery, monumental day, and they walk through the gardens outside. The withered man is an excellent sounding board, and she confides in him the things she isn't ready to share with Valtrois or Oculeth or Stellagosa. He coos and chatters at her stream-of-consciousness about the nature of guilt and attraction and her looming sense of ineptitude, content to follow her like a faithful pet. They spend half an hour together, admiring butterflies and discussing the outfall of a lifetime of trauma before she drops him off for lunch in the Nighthold kitchens.

In the quiet times between her daily meetings, Thalyssra tries not to think of who Theryn was before the Legion came to Suramar, his memories overlaid with her own like an oppressive blanket, when he was a father and husband and would do anything to protect his family. _"Pella, my gentle girl. My brave daughter."_ She tries not to think of how close she came to withering like him. 

Her leyline markings are a phantom limb that will never grow back, one that she shouldn't resent because it doesn't really hinder her, and so many have suffered far worse in this war.

What did she really lose after all was said and done? Her hair color? An addiction to magic? It's an ugly thing, self-pity, when she is whole and healthy and unwithered, marked by bright, shining leylines that others find so captivating, surrounded by friends who have stood beside her from start to finish. The whole world is damaged, and nearly everyone left alive has lost more in the aggregate. She shouldn't be allowed this despondency.

_No one else would feel this way,_ she thinks. _No one else would be so weak._

In the afternoon, Valtrois and Stellagosa visit her estate, a trunk of clothing in tow. Valtrois is a whirlwind of dresses and jewelry, holding up hanger after hanger while muttering to herself. Stellagosa informs her that they raided her closet the day prior- she had no concept of how or when they managed the time to do so; she certainly hadn't seen them come or go- found nothing satisfactory for her first peer meeting, and then went shopping on her behalf.

So now Thalyssra stands in a long-sleeve, light pink dress, neither formal nor informal, with her hair around her shoulders, carrying a small gift bag with a fine vintage of Jandvik red inside. She wears a heavy grey cloak as she walks out of the portal hub in Stormwind's Mage Quarters with Arluelle and Silgryn trailing behind her. 

Stellagosa repeatedly told her that she looked gorgeous, and Valtrois simply said, "That'll work." 

As the people coming and going from the hub glance her direction, fascinated and wide-eyed, she feels a spike of confidence that maybe her friends were right. But the sensation fades and logic prevails: the simplest answer is usually the right one, and these citizens of Stormwind ogle because they have never seen a Nightborne before.

Two Silver Covenant Rangers, Cethil from Dalaran and a second who introduces herself as Yribria, meet them with silent bows, tacitly asking that they follow. The Mage Quarters are a wonder to Thalyssra, an eclectic combination of different races' styles and magical influences. There are towering townhouses and an impressive wizard's tower in the center, plainly inspired by the architecture of Darnassus. This district, though filled with dwarves and humans and gnomes bustling around the lush park grounds, seems a touch more elven, and Thalyssra enjoys the sight of it, though the brief stroll does not quell her desire to explore the region further.

But she would behave. Wandering off here is as dangerous as her misadventure in Dalaran, and she didn't need Vereesa to grow tired of rescuing her before they'd even officially met as peers.

Vereesa's townhouse is close to the portal hub, three stories tall with stone stairs leading up to a front porch. When Cethil knocks and the front door opens, the smell of fragrant food cooking inside wafts around her, garlic and butter and sage, and she can hear the sound of children playing in the distance upstairs.

Vereesa stands in the doorway wearing a flowery apron and wielding a spatula, her typical armor and bow discarded. She wears tan pants and a navy blouse, her silver hair just touching her shoulders. Against her rational, more reserved brain, Thalyssra smiles widely at the sight. She recovers with a bumbling blush, head lowered.

"Please, come in," says Vereesa, her words spill out quickly, nervously, as if she's unfamiliar with the process of having house guests. Thalyssra cannot blame her in the least for her nerves, not entirely due to the inherent bias she has in her favor, but also because the Horde does not often come calling in Stormwind. "I'm off to a later start than I anticipated, so I apologize that dinner isn't ready." She gestures to the soldiers behind Thalyssra, both the spell-fencers and the Rangers, "You're welcome to anything in the pantry or cellar. Let me know if you need something else."

The friendly domesticity of the offer takes them all aback, even Vereesa's guards, but the stoic group makes their way to the living room as Vereesa guides Thalyssra through a spacious dining room and into the kitchen. As they pass beneath an overhanging balcony where tapestries of the Silver Covenant and Kirin Tor line the banisters, Thalyssra catches a glimpse of fleeting orange hair between the balustrade.

_Vereesa and Rhonin's sons._

There is the faintest scent of lemony, residual magic permeating the house, a smell of a person long gone, undoubtedly Rhonin. She feels like she should not be here, eking out her arcane aura as easily as she breathes, but she cannot dampen the soft glow of her markings or the leylines that course through her being.

"We might still have to time to walk around the Mage Quarter before dark." Vereesa's eyebrows knit together apologetically. "But the cooking isn't done and I'm sure you're quite hungry."

"It smells incredible in here," Thalyssra says warmly. "I wasn't expecting a home cooked meal at all, much less one so delectable."

The kitchen is tidy and well-lit, marble countertop covered in ingredients for Vereesa's meal. A tray of butternut squash roasts in the oven, and a ball of fresh dough sits in a bowl near the sink in the center island. Butter browns slowly in a saucepan on the stove, sage, garlic, and red pepper flakes floating in the thick liquid.

Vereesa shakes her head as she rolls up her sleeves, buttoning them just beneath her elbows. "I apologize that it isn't even close to ready; I arrived back from Boralus later than I expected, and couldn't find a sitter. And butternut squash ravioli is somewhat more involved than I remembered; I haven't made it in quite some time."

"No, no," says Thalyssra, "it's lovely that you're cooking at all. I know how busy you are." 

She is the busiest woman Thalyssra knows, a fabled perpetual motion machine whose only downfall is stillness, the dreadful state of being where her energy and agony coil up with no release. Thalyssra has a specter of that in her too, a shadow of the need to keep moving, but for all of her loathsome self-pity she thinks she might just be handling her manic tendencies better than the youngest Windrunner. Thalyssra has her friends to keep her between the ditches. 

She hands Vereesa the gift bag and says, "I don't know that this will be to your taste, but this year is quite popular in Suramar. You'll have to tell me what you think of it some day."

Vereesa wipes her hands on a towel, offering her a small, surprised smile in return, as if she is rarely on the receiving end of presents. Their fingers brush as she takes the handle, and Thalyssra quickly looks away, embarrassed by her own excitement at the most basic accidental contact. But Vereesa's smile remains, growing in size as she admires the wine bottle. She says, "We could always try it now. I find cooking far more amenable with wine and company."

"I think I'd like that," says Thalyssra, and it might be the most egregious understatement of her life.

Vereesa rifles around her kitchen drawers for a moment, before pulling a corkscrew out victoriously. She pours them each a glass, still dutifully eyeing the roasting squash, and suddenly realizes that Thalyssra is standing in front of her across the marble countertop. She gestures to the dining room chairs and grimaces, "Where are my manners? Please, take a seat."

Thalyssra rearranges her long pink dress and sits at a high backed stool instead, hands resting on the marble island where Vereesa's working.

"Is here all right?" Thalyssra asks. "I could help you if you need it, and I'm closer to the wine." The taps a glowing fingertip against the bottle. 

Vereesa exhales with a laugh, "I see your priorities are in line. Sit wherever you like."

Vereesa begins to roll out the dough with a rolling pin, lightly dusting her hands with white flour. "When I told Anduin we planned to meet today, he was elated. He offered me no fewer than twelve ideas for how to spend our time together. I think I'll save some of them for later, unless you'd like to lead an impromptu parade tonight."

Thalyssra feels a warm blush creep across her cheeks at the notion that she and Vereesa both have to spend time together at all, much less repeatedly. She watches Vereesa flatten the dough, bending at her hips as the rolling pin slides beneath her long fingers. The Ranger-General stops briefly to appraise her work with a thoughtful eye, flexing her broad shoulders and beginning the process again.

"I used to rather enjoy parades, but I don't think I'd like to be the star of one," says Thalyssra, unable to tear her gaze away.

"Nor would I. I don't have the energy for it these days."

Thalyssra feels as if the woman before her is right on the edge of something dangerous, something that she shouldn't have to experience: a sharp rock swept under a rug, waiting to slice through an unfortunate foot. There is a weariness on her face that drains the light in her blue eyes, like she's distracted by some phantom only she can see. She wonders then if Vereesa has already encountered her sharp rock, and now works in her kitchen recollecting how the river of blood poured out of her, unaware that she has a captive audience reading her face.

Thalyssra feels a sudden guilt for having added to her stress and misery, for having made her work even more. She breaks her reverie and softly says,"Perhaps we just stay inside tonight? There are no rules against it." Thalyssra sips her wine. "I found the Horde paperwork for peer visits rather vague."

Vereesa snaps back to attention, her blue eyes returning to the her guest. "That doesn't surprise me," she breathes. "I swear I'm not trying to get out of taking you on a tour." She flattens the dough, the lean muscles of her arms working it into a thin sheet, as practiced with a rolling pin as she is with a weapon. Without pause, she begins to slice it into even strips. "Truly, neither here nor Dalaran."

"I shall have to be patient then," Thalyssra smiles, glass to her lips. "No doubt they will be worth it."

Her eyes glance up, away from her work, and for a moment Vereesa Windrunner looks wholly present, her ears piqued with curiosity and pleasure. Framed between her straight, silvery hair, a shadow of a smile crosses her lips. This is not like the last time Vereesa caught her staring in Dalaran: a sea of people between them, her making a quick exit to the courtyard while the First Arcanist watched her go.

This time she holds her gaze. She searches Thalyssra's face for answers to an unasked question.

Above them a reedy voice cries out, "Minn'da! We're hungry!" 

Vereesa lowers her eyes with a tired smile as she sets down her knife, the magnetism between them now evaporated. She says, "Excuse me." She climbs the stairs to the landing where the boys were hiding.

Alone in the kitchen, Thalyssra moves to the sink and washes her hands before lightly dusting them with flour. There is no reason for Vereesa to cook alone when they would both eat the meal. She retrieves the knife and finishes slicing the dough into tidy, even squares, presumably the right size for making stuffed ravioli. She stirs the butter, careful not to let it darken around the edges of the pan, and checks the squash with a fork, which isn't quite done cooking.

She is suddenly, profusely grateful that Oculeth took an interest in the culinary arts and enjoyed teaching her what he knew, though she has always been more careful than he is with her knife work.

When Vereesa returns to the kitchen, she steps gracefully around the countertop, lean arm outstretched as if trying to take the spatula from Thalyssra. She says, "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to put you to work."

"I like to help," Thalyssra offers, lowering the spatula from her reach. It is an inane game of keep-away-- if Vereesa wants to take it she certainly could-- but her calloused fingertips slowly lower to the countertop too, brushing the top of Thalyssra's hand.

"It's the least I can do," Thalyssra murmurs, surprised she can find her voice at all.

From the corner from the dining room, one of the boys sticks his head around the doorframe, freckles just visible in the electric light. Vereesa steps back from her and says, "Come here, boys."

Redheaded elves are uncommon, though not so rare as Rommath's exotic black tresses, but thus far Thalyssra has only seen Liadrin's fiery hair among the blood elves. Perhaps it is more likely in high elves, or is solely due to Rhonin's human influence. The boys are very handsome children: fair and freckle-faced, with eyes that barely glow blue in low light. They wear matching pajamas, one in blue, one in green, both of them bare-ankled and gangly, a bit too tall for their clothes.

She smiles widely at them, still minding the food. Thalyssra can count on one hand the number of children in Suramar, and she feels a small ache in her chest at the sight of not one, but two of them. She has no kin of her own left, and the closest thing to a child she will ever love is Theryn, her withered ward.

The boys rush up to their mother, one standing on either side of her, posturing somewhere between self-conscious and proud. Vereesa says, "This is Galadin, and this is Giramar. They're fourteen." She clarifies, "Which would be about nine for an elf."

"Hello," says Thalyssra as she stirs the butter. "I'm Thalyssra from Suramar. I'm your mother's peer from the Horde."

"Hello," the boys say simultaneously. They had obviously been warned about her arrival, or perhaps they were simply as capable as their mother at processing shocking information without betraying their feelings. Their short half-elf ears perk up curiously when she smiles at them, working twice as hard to show their interest. She finds herself thinking that they are quite precious.

"They're learning some magic and swordplay along with the rest of their education in Dalaran. I'm sure they'll show off for you someday." Vereesa brushes the hair back from both of their foreheads. 

"Spells _and_ swords?" Thalyssra exclaims. "Subjects near and dear to my shal'dorei heart. I shall have to introduce you to my spell-fencers, Silgryn and Arluelle. Their blades are arcane in nature. I think you'll find them most impressive."

Vereesa smiles again, slow and reserved, like the gesture is unfamiliar to the muscles of her face. Thalyssra crouches down as if checking the oven in another feeble attempt to hide her blush. No doubt her ears still betray her delight, poking above the countertop.

"I wanna see their swords," says Galadin. "Can we see them now?"

"No, I want peanut butter first," Giramar prods at his brother. "I'm hungry."

Vereesa stations herself at Thalyssra's side, pulling two small plates from the shelves over her head. She retrieves a jar of peanut butter and two apples, one for each of them, before she begins to slice them up.

Galadin, now completely enamored with the idea of magic swords, cranes his neck toward the spell-fencers in the living room while Giramar side-eyes his mother. "Do we have to have apples?"

"Yes, you have to have apples," she flatly replies. "Peanut butter alone is not a snack."

Galadin's head whips back around. "You eat peanut butter alone!" he shouts.

This time it's Vereesa's turn to blush, tilting her head bashfully. "I'm a grown woman and your mother, and I can do whatever I want with peanut butter."

Thalyssra laughs, removing the squash from the oven with a pair of thick oven mitts. She tells the boys, "You'll need to eat your fruit if you want to be like the spell-fencers. The blades may be magical but the hilts are heavy." She mashes up the squash with a large fork, eyeing the twins playfully.

Galadin harrumphs but complies, taking a seat at the dining room table, shortly joined by his brother. Thalyssra gathers the distinct impression that Galadin is more vocal than his sly twin, and certainly less reserved. They both devour their bedtime snacks with fervor when Vereesa sets the plates down on the table, a generous mound of peanut butter before each of her sons.

"Growth spurt," Vereesa lowers her voice as she returns to the kitchen. "They're always hungry."

"That's wonderful," says Thalyssra. "They'll grow up strong like their mother."

"Hmm," Vereesa refills both of their wine glasses, which Thalyssra had somehow not noticed were empty. "Hopefully they'll be a bit taller than I am." She moves past Thalyssra, a warm hand on the small of her back, and retrieves two spoons, one for each of them.

As they stand side-by-side filling flat dough with squash stuffing, Thalyssra cannot attribute the heat on her face to the oven. She presses her lips together tightly, flushed and tense, her heart pounding so noisily she wonders if everyone can hear it. Though she normally dislikes anyone touching her back-- she can't even sleep on it since Melandrus' knife pierced her, the tingling bite of the wound is so distracting it keeps her awake-- she finds the sensation far more enjoyable with Vereesa.

"I think you're quite tall for a high elf," she says softly, loud enough for only them to hear. The boys are focused on devouring their snacks like bottomless pits.

There were few moments during the liberation of Suramar when Thalyssra fought near Vereesa and her Covenant Rangers. But she remembers the Ranger-General never missing a shot: accurate beyond measure, never ceasing her offensive, falling in the melee and rising again. She remembers her silver hair turning pink with blood, and her tending the wounded, ignoring her own injuries until she was satisfied with their bandages. Vereesa was compassionate in her unyielding, mechanical way, offering all of herself to the people around her.

"Could be taller," Vereesa says with an amused expression. "Better vantage for an archer. And for high shelves."

As he finishes the last of his peanut butter, Galadin turns to Thalyssra. He says, "Minn'da told us you can do magic. Can you make light shows?"

Vereesa drops her spoon with a clatter, her ears flattened in fear.

Giramar kicks his brother under the table. He whispers with a scowl, "Galadin!" 

"What?" he leans away from his twin with a stricken expression. "Aunt Jaina could do them too. It wasn't just dad."

Vereeesa's eyes gloss over, as if lost in a nightmarish memory, but she picks up her spoon and continues working. The boys look at her surreptitiously, embarrassed and sorrowful, short ears lowered as far as they can be. The room is silent except for the repetitive sound of the spoon scraping the pan.

Thalyssra washes her hands, desperately trying not to react to the tension. Despite the wine now clouding her judgment, she knows enough not to ask after the light shows, whatever they may be. This family has yet to recover from the loss of Rhonin, and she knows well how long the healing process could take. On some days she believes it is never truly done.

She rounds the countertop, not touching Vereesa, and approaches the twins with a tiny smile. She straightens her long fingers, waving a series of shapes into the air, shimmering purple. She says, "I _can_ do magic. And I can do this."

The outline of a dragon appears, roughly the size of a horse, all blue and grey and purple. The approximation of Stellagosa floats over the dining room table without flapping her wings and breathes green, curling geometric fire. The boys stand up, awe on their faces, small hands reaching through the illusion.

"A dragon aspect!" says Giramar.

"This is what my friend, Stellagosa, looks like when she takes her dragon form. She's of the Blue Dragonflight."

"She's small!" Galadin says, running his fingers through her verdant fire.

Thalyssra tilts her head, "That's true. She's not to scale. The real Stellagosa is much larger; you'll see when you meet her."

"That's so cool," says Galadin, though Thalyssra can't tell if he's listening or commenting on the green fire.

The sound of the scraping spoon stops, and Vereesa watches them with a distracted expression. Her hands are still, tenderly resting on the counter, her lips parted as if she wants to speak but cannot find the words.

"When Stellagosa takes her high elf form, she looks a bit like your mother," says Thalyssra, faintly smiling. "But with blue scales."

"I want blue dragon scales," Giramar says. "Like Archmage Kalec!"

Thalyssra waves her hand again, casting an illusion of blue scales peppering Giramar's face, and similar green ones on Galadin's. She matches the color of their pajamas, just for fun.

Chairs slide loudly against the stone floor, and the boys are slapping at each other's cheeks, laughing and rushing to find a mirror. They run out of the room, half-wrestling, and illusion-Stellagosa follows them like a kite on the breeze. She can hear the exclamations of the soldiers in the living room when the twins run through.

Thalyssra retrieves their plates and sets them in the sink, surprised at how thoroughly they scraped up their peanut butter. She returns to Vereesa's side, takes a sip of her wine, and resumes ravioli filling duty.

"That was very kind of you," says Vereesa. Her gaze is focused on her task, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"I enjoy their enthusiasm," Thalyssra replies, the corner of her lips quirking upward. "Not everyone is so impressed with me."

"I find that hard to believe, First Arcanist." Vereesa fills a large pot with water, setting it on the stove to boil. As she salts the water, she says, "You've been very kind about everything."

She remembers the protective hand on the small of her back, steady and warm, and the way Vereesa positioned her body between Thalyssra and the threat that wasn't quite deadly after all. Something twists in her chest, an aching for that sense of safety, when she considers that Vereesa simply didn't want her to be hurt, so she stood in the way of it. A sacrifice.

"You make it very easy to be kind," she murmurs.

Vereesa drinks her wine, her face softening. "I'm sure it would be easier if I had dinner ready, as promised."

Thalyssra laughs lightly. She is quite hungry and the wine taking its toll, but she says, "I swear not to hold it against you."

They fold up the ravioli piece by piece, drop it into the bubbling water, and wait for the pasta to cook. Vereesa retrieves the cheese and parsley from cold storage, taking her wine with her, and they talk.

Vereesa talks far more than Thalyssra has ever seen before, and she finds it easy to talk in return. She doesn't know if they're covering the topics one would expect from Unification Treatise peers, but they _are_ peers, and they _are_ meeting.

Vereesa strains out the pasta and asks after Suramar while Thalyssra stirs the butter and fills their wine glasses again.

She tells her about Suramar's growth and rebuilding, and how she sometimes take Theryn out for walks so he can see sunlight. She tells her how tries not to think of how often she slept outside when she was nightfallen, and how once, for many days, her hunger was so great she stared at her hands, at her fingerprints, as if she could see through the papery flesh of them into the arcane power that still coursed in her veins. She wondered, laying on her back beneath the stars, her wound itching, how her muscle and sinew would taste. Would the near-spent mana inside her satisfy her craving? She pressed a padded finger to her dry lips, so spindly it would be easy to bite through.

With a groan of nausea and disgust she sat up, ashamed and alone, the knowledge that she would soon wither fully her only motive force. She shambled to Ambervale in search of a cure, repulsed by her body and mind.

And then, with fresh horror, Thalyssra hears herself speaking. She's disclosed something wretched to Vereesa, who never asked for that despair and certainly needs no more burden to carry. She has, without pausing to consider the the rightness of her actions, told Vereesa something she's never told anyone else. Her lowest moment. Her greatest shame.

"I-I'm sorry," Thalyssra stutters. "That's not appropriate-"

Vereesa slides her hand across the counter and covers Thalyssra's. She can feel her heat, the hard callouses on her palm. She can see the tiny white scars between her knuckles from a lifetime of war, beautiful and resilient and strong like her. 

Vereesa quietly says, "I can't fathom what you survived, but please don't apologize for anything you've said to me." Her hand squeezes tighter for an instant. "I understand to an extent. I don't.... feel like myself lately."

Thalyssra half-whispers, "As long as you know it's still you." She isn't the right person to come to for advice, not for anything, but she wants to offer her something, anything, a comfort in a world that has given her none. She wants Vereesa to feel as safe as she makes everyone around her feel. "That feeling is just a moment. A shade. It's still you."

The butter, left too long unstirred, pops in its pan, burning Thalyssra's wrist with minute, painful speckles. She yelps in a most undignified way and jumps backwards, half-falling in Vereesa, who immediately rushes forward to remove the pan from the stovetop.

"Are you all right?" Vereesa asks.

"Just scared," she laughs, rubbing her wrist.

"I suppose that's dinner's way of saying it's ready," Vereesa smiles back, inspecting Thalyssra's arm for any signs of lasting damage. When satisfied, she plates the pasta with buttery sauce and garnishes, pouring the last of the wine for each of them.

Thalyssra clears her throat. She shouldn't be so tipsy after half a bottle of wine, but here she is, squeaking at butter and casting furtive glances at Vereesa Windrunner's muscular forearms as she sets the dinner table.

They, like the twins before them, absolutely devour their food. They laugh sheepishly at their ravenous appetites, only marginally embarrassed that an hour's worth of work was inhaled in a matter of minutes. They separately compliment each other's work as they blot their lips with napkins.

The conversation moves to little things, comfortable topics that Thalyssra historically found dull. She never felt capable of small talk, but quite enjoys hearing how Vereesa felt about the weather in Boralus-- too dreary but it suited the locale-- or how Genn Greymane lamented hosting his peer, Varok Saurfang, for an upcoming visit. They chat for over an hour: light, easy, happy, and Thalyssra finds herself staring at Vereesa's deep blue eyes, impressed with the effectiveness of her Warchief's plan.

_Does Sylvanas do this with Jaina? How could we have ever fought these incredible women?_

"That really was delicious," says Thalyssra in a quiet moment, leaning back in her chair. "Certainly worth the wait."

"And perfect with the wine," Vereesa agrees. "It was an excellent addition, so thank you again."

"My pleasure."

Around the corner from the living room, a woman's voice whispers, "Forgive my interruption, Ranger-General, First Arcanist." Ranger Cethil bows her head, "What should we do with the children? They're asleep now, but Silgryn can't move."

Vereesa and Thalyssra follow her back to the living room, where the twins are fast asleep, Galadin splayed across Silgryn's lap, the hilt of his spellsword clutched to his chest, and Giramar sleeps on the floor beside the Stellagosa illusion, who curls her tail around him. Arluelle waves at them as they enter, as friendly as ever, from her place on the loveseat beside Ranger Yribria.

"If you can manage, their beds are upstairs," Vereesa whispers.

Thalyssra waves away her illusions, smiling as the glowing Stellagosa dissipates and the scales fall away from the twins' faces. Silgryn slowly rises up with Galadin, and Cethil bends down to pick up Giramar, and it is no small miracle that neither boy wakes.

Cethil leads him upstairs, apparently she's done this before, and Arluelle rises from the sofa. She says, "They're wonderful young men, Ranger-General. Very smart and energetic."

Thalyssra watches as they're carried upstairs, "They truly are a gift."

"Thank you both," Vereesa says graciously, her pale cheeks flushed by the wine and attention. Thalyssra checks the time with a quick clockwork spell, and her eyes widen in surprise. She says, "I had no idea it was so late."

"Oh," Vereesa's eyes widen to match as soon as she sees the arcane clock. "My morning meetings have suddenly grown more inconvenient." As Silgryn and Cethil return down the stairs, Vereesa tells Thalyssra, "Thank you for staying so late. I've no doubt you have an early morning too. Shall I walk you out?"

Thalyssra nods somewhat sadly, disappointed that such a nice evening is coming to a close, but Vereesa deserves to rest. The guards lead the way outside, Silver Covenant Rangers and Suramar spell-fencers now side-by-side.

Against a backdrop of massive Cyprus trees, Thalyssra stands on the cobblestones of Stormwind's Mage Quarters. From their stations up ahead, Arluelle and Silgryn nod at her congenially, happy to see her happy, their arcane markings glowing in the dark. She can smell some enterprising alchemist toiling late into the night, brewing a mysterious potion with the fragrant tang of star moss, and it reminds her a bit of Suramar in the old days, long before the Legion came. Vereesa stands behind her on the porch stairs, for once the same height, her blue eyes taking in their surroundings, always alert for a threat, if a little more sluggish than usual.

Thalyssra faces her with a lazy grin, suddenly cognizant of their proximity, and the fact that Vereesa doesn't step back. She feels her exhales on her face, warm and rich with the scent of wine, and the pause between them stretches long enough that she can feel her heart racing in her chest, a powerful thrum. Vereesa's gaze is focused on her lips, lacking the usual cold calculation of the Ranger-General, but none of her intensity.

Her voice hushed and low, Vereesa speaks softly enough that only Thalyssra can hear, "Pink looks nice on you."

Thalyssra feels a burning low in her stomach, a craving to touch her hand again and beg for Vereesa to compliment her day after day because it makes her so happy she wants to burst. Voice thick, she comes to her senses enough to lamely reply, "Thank you. I had a nice time with you tonight."

"I did too," Vereesa murmurs. She leans forward, just an inch, the barest incline of her head, and Thalyssra feels the hungry, giddy euphoria that she might kiss her. She leans forward too, breathing her in, so close their noses nearly brush.

But then Vereesa blinks, as if catching herself lost in thought again, and the moment is broken. She steps back abruptly toward the door, her sense of propriety restored. Her jaw tightens and she says in a clear, professional voice, "I'll see you at the wedding then?"

Thalyssra nods slowly, stunned by the moment she so grossly misread. _What a foolish notion that she would kiss me._ She should not have had so much wine; the drink is playing tricks with her heart. She says, "Yes. I look forward to it."

They say quiet goodbyes and the Suramar delegation continues the trek to the mage portals, Silgryn and Arluelle chatting amiably about their new acquaintances, Thalyssra in a haze of elation and disappointment, battling with a fully bloomed attraction that has only grown deeper roots. She doesn't want to frighten or alienate Vereesa, the single mother, the widow, the Ranger-General of the Silver Covenant. What an awful social and political faux pas it would be if she had tried to kiss her when she didn't want to be kissed, especially not by Thalyssra. The thought makes her stomach turn, confused and discouraged.

Thalyssra glances back apologetically one final time. Vereesa Windrunner stands alone on her porch, holding herself tightly, and watches her walk away with a strange look of loss on her lovely face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: repressed lesbian librarian stares at bi-curious single mother's hands for 4 hours. Nothing happens.


	21. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a blood bath!

Sylvanas sits on the sofa in her living room, arms crossed, staring at the unmoving portal. The fireplace burns behind her, the log turned mostly to ash. It has been two hours since Anya departed, and while the horrific rat's nest of dresses has finally been removed from her sight, her mood grows darker by the minute. She feels a flash of worry for Anya- she never takes this long to return- followed by a deepening rage. Proudmoore Keep is safe for her, not like Thunder Bluff, and no doubt Jaina is dragging her feet in some sort of passive aggressive rebellion.

_Or Jaina refused outright and Anya is making an unauthorized midnight visit to the Fordragon girl._ Sylvanas glowers, _Absolutely unacceptable._

An unread book sits on the table before her: a unappealing scientific tome on the biology of Nordrassil. She stares at the bland cover, no desire to open it. Though it's one of the last on her reading list, she feels no sense of accomplishment, only vague irritation and pent-up energy overflowing in her static, dead body.

Sylvanas glances out the window and thinks, _I should have eaten before I sent that letter._

Resentment washes through her along with the knowledge that the more she eats, the more she feels, and feeling would present a new set of problems if she gets her way tonight. Muted fury is easier, for all the danger it presents.

Before she can indulge her negativity in earnest, the portal flares bright blue and the scent of Jaina's magic fills the room. Her nose wrinkles slightly; there is some smell underlying the hyacinth and fig that she still cannot place, something like saltwater on a fresh breeze.

Anya steps through first, soaked from head to toe, the smell of sleety rain sticking to her skin, air around her frigid and blustery, the last traces of wind sweeping through her hair and cloak. Despite the overt chill and her sopping clothes, she seems to be in a good mood.

Sylvanas rises to her feet and snaps, "Report."

"Lady Jaina insisted-"

Before Sylvanas can express her growing confusion and displeasure-- _It's Lady Jaina now, Anya?_ \-- the portal flairs again. Jaina strides through, equally soaked to the bone, carrying her staff in one hand and a massive, limp, horned owl under her right arm, its brown wings dangling beside her hip. She wears a cylindrical, leather map case on her back, dressed in her armor for an outing.

The wet fabric clings to her, heavy and icy, and Sylvanas recalls how small she was without her pauldrons and cloak: underweight and unhealthy, her dark circles a testament to her ceaseless work and her insomnia. She remembers hearing Jaina wake from her nightmares before the sun rose. She is at higher risk for illness, and should not be wandering around in the dreary, frozen Boralus rain.

Jaina waves a hand, magic spinning around her fingers, and the dampness on their clothes and skin disappears as if they never walked through a storm at all. Loose white hair curls at the sides of her head, wavy from the humidity, and Jaina sniffs, "This would have been significantly easier if you'd allowed me adequate time to prepare."

Sylvanas glares at her, and at the large bird limp in her arms. She hates herself for the small relief she feels at being presented with the opportunity to eat, and a powerful creature, no less. She feels frustrated at her own helplessness, at owing Jaina even more, and the irrational, uncontrollable anger wells in her chest again.

Anya's eyes dart between them.

"I didn't ask for," Sylvanas gestures emptily, "an owl."

Jaina blinks in silence, as if debating how to respond. After an eternity, she turns to Anya and says, "Thank you for your help tonight. We can take it from here."

Sylvanas' eyes narrow, livid that Jaina would dismiss her Ranger-Captain, though she'd been about to dismiss Anya herself. She bites her tongue, giving a curt nod of agreement when Anya glances her way for confirmation. She cannot discern from where her rage stems: Jaina's overbearing demeanor, or having not eaten in over a week after taking meals more regularly. The more she eats, the more she craves the comfort and stability it offers, other emotions aside.

_Infuriating, arrogant woman._

They stare at each other from across the living room, and the moment the door closes behind Anya, Jaina says, "There's something we teach new mages in Dalaran, the very first lesson we give them, in fact."

She crosses the room and holds the owl out to Sylvanas. She does not need to explain why she brought the bird, so she continues her lecture. Sylvanas gloomily accepts it.

"Do not ever, under any circumstances, open a blind portal," Jaina recites. "It's a recipe for disaster, a mage-killer. You could fall from a great height, splice yourself between floors, be buried underground, or be beheaded while checking if it was safe on the other side. It's happened before."

"I provided you an elevation," Sylvanas coolly replies.

She clutches the sleeping owl, the bounty of Jaina and Anya's nighttime hunt, and feels a twinge of anger at herself for her impatience. Jaina obviously, wisely, insisted on feeding her before complying with the rest of the letter. Their last meeting in Dalaran had ended well, but it seemed Jaina credited the fox blood for that change more than Sylvanas' self-control.

_Perhaps she is right._

Sylvanas eyes the owl. She doesn't want to eat over the carpet, but neither does she want to go down to the throne room through the corridors of Horde citizens who eye her, half in fear, half in morbid curiosity. The fewer prying eyes on her tonight, the better. It is enough of a stain on her conscience to have wrangled Jaina Proudmoore into her misadventure, and now she _owes_ her.

"You did," says Jaina. "To a location I have never seen. This is still a blind portal."

Unable to bite her tongue, Sylvanas sneers, "Am I to understand that the Archmage is too afraid to carry out this task?"

"The Archmage understands arcane portals _far_ better than the Warchief, and is unwilling to kill them both for an impromptu field trip to the Ghostlands," Jaina snaps back. She kneels down beside the rectangular table, opening the map case slung across her back. "On top of that, you haven't told me why I should open this portal in the first place."

She spreads a map of the northern portion of the Plaguelands, the top edge cutting through the Ghostlands, meticulously detailed in the Gnomish style. At the top-center, lightly written in pencil, are the coordinates she'd sent Jaina in her letter, a small circle marking the location she requested.

"You don't need to come with me," says Sylvanas. Her eyes scan the map, a beautifully crafted thing, something that she would have coveted for herself when she was a Ranger. She still enjoys the practicality and aesthetic of cartography. "I asked you to open the portal, and nothing else. I can return by Hearthstone."

Jaina heaves a tired sigh, her fingers playing at the edges of the map, "Let me just... reiterate. You want me to open a portal in the middle of the night to an undisclosed location I've never seen, drop you off alone, and go back home?"

"Yes," says Sylvanas. She holds the owl's talons in one fist, its wings dragging unceremoniously against the plush rug.

"No. None of that is happening," says Jaina. "Tell me where you need to go. If you refuse to take your Rangers then I will come with you."

Sylvanas' lips curl up. A frenzy builds in her gut, a sense of fear and vulnerability she has no desire to share, encased in rage and embarrassment. She feels so unsteady.

"No." 

"If something happens to you on this mysterious little visit, who will be blamed?" asks Jaina, still annoyingly composed. "I let you go alone, without protection, with no information about your objective. Through a blind portal, no less."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'm coming with-"

" _No_ ," Sylvanas seethes, her voice double-toned, the high whine of the banshee a ghastly overlay on her refusal.

Jaina's eyes lock onto her own, serious and defensive, but she is calm as ever when she says, "Then find another mage." She rises from her knees, rolling up her map.

Sylvanas says, "No. That's not--"

Jaina continues rolling up the map, unconcerned with what she has to say. Sylvanas inhales deeply, the sensation unfamiliar in her lungs. "Just," she mutters, "stay here."

She walks toward the bathroom without checking to see if Jaina obeys her, still dragging the sleeping horned owl. Her chest burns from the ignominy of the situation, the fact that she's helpless to do what she needs to do, conflicted by desperately wanting to eat but loathing that Jaina is the one feeding her, and crushed with embarrassment at her own unreasonable petulance. 

So now she prepares to drain the warm blood of a horned owl in her bathroom, trapped into both an undesired confession and partnership with Jaina Proudmoore, who has, thus far, not followed a single one of her directions. She simply cannot win.

Sylvanas stands over the tiles of the bathroom sink and turns her gaze away from the mirror. She gently parts the feathers of the owl's neck, and sinks her fangs into its flesh. The blood fills her quickly, a steady, old, predatory spirit, one content to wait for its moment to strike. The creature's body empties fast, far more rapidly than a larger mammal, but she feels satisfaction with the meal, a sensation that all her edges dulled by anger have been honed to perfection, hyper-focused on the hunt.

She tilts her head back for a moment, reveling in her fullness. When Sylvanas' eyes open, she faces her reflection, lips red with blood, patient and powerful. She washes her mouth in the sink, then sets the owl beneath it.

_Feathers for fletching,_ she thinks. _Meat for the bats._ She will not waste the beast.

When she reemerges in the living room, Jaina has taken the seat on the sofa nearest the fireplace, idly surveying her map again. Sylvanas can see the pulse in her neck, the way the pad of her thumb drags against the soft skin below her ear. The owl's hyper-vigilance is distracting.

Jaina turns her head slightly, her braid sliding across her back, the tip of it pale as a field mouse. She says, "Thank you for eating."

For a moment, Sylvanas waits for the anger to overtake her again. To blurt something cruel about Jaina's domineering personality, about always assuming she knows what's best. But the feeling never comes, only calm, genuine gratitude. She wanted to eat, after all.

"Thank you for feeding me," Sylvanas replies. "Did you feel it die again?"

"Yes, but I was ready this time." Jaina touches her anchor pendant, still gazing at the map. "Was the owl acceptable? I don't know your preferences but Anya told me no fish, which is a real shame considering the excellent selection Boralus has to offer."

"Anya is correct. Fish are stupid creatures and their blood tastes vile," she replies. "Birds of prey are preferable to others, though I prefer larger mammals." She does not add that she enjoys them for their warmth and personalities, and the way they make her feel almost alive.

Jaina nods, folding her hands in her lap, demure and proper. "May I come with you to wherever it is you need to go?" she asks again, as if she has not been refused thrice.

Sylvanas tilts her head. The owl's spirit, ever practical, reminds her that she has no choice. She must complete her task; she must hunt. Jaina is the means to an end, her hunting partner.

"Yes," says Sylvanas. "If that's what it takes for you to open this portal."

Jaina's eyebrows raise, pleasantly surprised by her answer. She turns to her, blue eyes searching Sylvanas' face, pleading for more. She asks, "Will you tell me why we're doing this?"

A different rush of emotion builds in Sylvanas' chest like a boiling pot, the sensitivity another byproduct of her eating. Today has been truly wretched, frustrating beyond measure, and for a task she might have once enjoyed when she was living. She cannot fathom what she would have thought of marrying a woman like Jaina Proudmoore when she was a simple Ranger. _What an honor, what a privilege._

But now she can only offer her the shackles of a peace treaty, a loveless marriage and the heartache of a dead body, cold and immutable at her side. The only warmth she can provide is through violent spite, the sort of passion that burns trees and tears families apart, a worthless gift.

_What had Jaina said? "If I don't know you, I won't trust you."_

Sylvanas can give her honesty, a fuller picture, a small victory in which she has her questions answered. It is a fair trade for her presence and her portal, a single drop in the bucket of what Sylvanas owes. She needs Jaina to do this; she is indebted to her.

"I must go to Windrunner Spire to retrieve my mother's wedding dress," Sylvanas says flatly. 

The admission hurts less than she anticipated it would, though she bristles at Jaina's sympathy. Blue eyes roam her face, concerned and uneasy, more surprised by Sylvanas' openness than the danger of the task at hand. The Scourge roam the Ghostlands and, though she and her sisters cleared a wide swath of them from Eversong Woods to the Spire over two months ago, they always shambled back in their unending march: infinitely more dangerous at night, sensitive to any noise, and manageable so long as they didn't swarm. A large enough mob of Scourge could overpower even the most gifted warrior, even Sylvanas herself.

Sylvanas does not want to risk bringing one of her Rangers on this foolish mission, not for something as asinine as a dress. She does not want to have to answer questions of the mages who open her portal, who make the entire mission a grandiose production, who would undoubtedly gossip and chatter about their Dark Lady the moment she disappeared.

She just wants her mother's dress. 

"Describe the portal location to me," Jaina says. Her voice is softer now, apologetic. She lowers her head to the map, as if making a show of studying what she's already clearly memorized.

Sylvanas crosses her arms. "It was a Dragonhawk roost south of the Spire. A landing zone for guests. It's even stone, somewhat overgrown now, but the area is flat and walkable. The treeline is about twenty feet away. If the Scourge approach from the forest I'll see them before it's an issue."

"How far is it from the Spire itself?"

"About a hundred feet. It has a stone pathway leading up to stairs." Sylvanas adds, "I need to go to the attic, but do not anticipate it will take me long." 

Jaina takes a deep, unsteady breath, almost a sigh, and says, "All right then. I'm ready if you are." She rises to her feet, leaving the map on the table as she gathers her staff.

"Do you feel-" _comfortable?_ she almost asks. "Capable of making this portal?"

"I do. Unless you have a photograph of the location, I have enough information to do this safely."

Sylvanas nods, and nocks an arrow in Deathwhisper. She would not be caught unawares in the Ghostlands, not after her last visit to the Spire. Her sojourn would have been exceptionally dangerous without Alleria and Vereesa by her side. Being with her sisters was an unstable comfort, one she craved, even through her starvation. She misses them. She keeps their abandoned necklaces, another embarrassment, another weakness she cannot shake.

Vereesa avoids her at all costs since the trial, and Alleria refuses to the sign the peace treaty. She's not certain either one will attend the wedding, least of all for her sake. They are far closer to Jaina. She hates herself for feeling abandoned by them, pathetic and pitiful, truly forsaken. Even Liadrin only stays by her side out of obligation.

Sylvanas bites the inside of her cheek. She says, "I'm ready."

Jaina waves her hand, opening a bright blue portal in front of the wall with the permanent anchor. The room fills with her scent again, floral and sweet. She steps through first and Sylvanas follows silently behind.

The moment she passes through the portal, Sylvanas' eyes widen as she takes in the scene before her, unexpectedly gory and full of the moans of the Scourge. Jaina has speared four zombies with vicious ice spikes, tripping over a fifth she apparently sliced in half with her portal. She turns back to Sylvanas with glowing eyes, lips snarling, and hisses, trying not to shout, "Duck."

Sylvanas drops to a crouch as another ice bolt whizzes past her ears. She sees a dark shape moving in the woods behind Jaina, thankful for the owl's spirit singing in her body, and fires her arrow. Then another shape, another shot. Quick and quiet, they dispatch of twelve shambling creatures in total, careful not to make a sound beyond the crackling of ice and the twang of bowstring.

As the heat of the abrupt battle fades, the chill of the night sinks in. The ground is slick with partially melted ice, not quite snow, and the wind howls furiously. Jaina's cape and braid whip around her, and Sylvanas feels a moment of pleasure that all of her shots landed. Lateral wind is an archer's worst enemy. 

Jaina breathes heavily, head swiveling for any sign of movement, still embracing her frost magic and staff in a vicegrip. Sylvanas' ears tilt to the north; she can barely hear more moans of Scourge in the distance over the wind. She returns her arrow to the quiver on her back, frowning.

_This was a mistake. No doubt Jaina will rub it in, as well she should._

Sylvanas says, "Forgive me. I miscalculated. I have never seen the Scourge gather here before and I thought this would be the safest location for a portal."

Jaina hardly looks at her, still scanning the treeline. After a deep breath she releases her spell, content in their current safety, the glow fading from her eyes. She sounds excited and upbeat as she says, "I'm just glad these were stragglers and not a full mob. And that you followed behind me. You can obviously see much farther in the dark than I can. But there's nothing quite so unnerving as stepping through a portal with five zombies an arms-length away on the other side." She toes at the severed legs of the one her portal bisected. "Well, four-and-a-half."

"You were right about the inherent danger of portals," Sylvanas says.

"It's almost like they made me an Archmage for a reason," says Jaina coyly. "Just wait until you see the Diadem."

_She seems happy,_ Sylvanas thinks. The smell of the dragonhawk landing pedestal reeks of grime and rot, kicked up and swirled around her by the wind. _Perhaps she's just relieved to have survived, or that I was proven wrong._

"No doubt it's extravagant," says Sylvanas. "Let's go inside."

She leads the way up the slick stairs to the Spire, glancing back occasionally to verify that Jaina is keeping up. The stonework is worn by the elements and the countless visitors they once hosted at the Spire- dignitaries, family, friends- and the lack of a foothold makes them a precarious climb under the best of circumstances. Add to that the wind, wet ground, and a lack of Ranger training, and Sylvanas finds herself somewhat impressed that Jaina is keeping pace.

The wide, wooden front doors of the Spire are unlocked, and the inside was looted long ago by intrepid, amoral adventurers. Everything of value was taken and sold in auction houses and black markets: furniture, silverware, jewelry. Her childhood home is gutted, full of the corpses of adventurers and Scourge who met untimely, violent ends.

As they enter the foyer, Sylvanas thinks it quite strange that no one has ever stolen their pictures and portraits, perhaps because the frames are simple wooden things, nothing expensive or golden. Or perhaps they think they would have a difficult time reselling such cursed objects, the eyes of the dead Windrunners following them around the room. Behind her, Jaina summons a glowing orb of light-- thanks to the owl, Sylvanas hadn't realized how dark it was inside without the moonlight-- and takes in the space around her; the high ceilings and marble floors, the layer of dust and filth covering every surface. They approach the sweeping staircase to the second story, its walls still lined with portraits and photographs, its stairs dilapidated and dangerous, weakened by age and termites.

"Step where I step," says Sylvanas lowly, respectfully, as if they walk on sacred ground or visit some cathedral full of relics from a lost age. 

Jaina complies, glancing from Sylvanas' footwork to the portraits, holding up her light to see their faces. Sylvanas' ears lower and she clenches her jaw. She has no desire to answer Jaina's questions about her family, her history, her stories. They are dead things that no longer hold any weight in her heart. Her sapphire necklace sits against her sternum and she shifts her shoulders.

To her surprise, Jaina says nothing. The white light casts shadows across her face, sharpening her cheekbones as she stares at a photograph of Sylvanas and her sisters. Vereesa, a gangly teenager at the time, had beaten her and Alleria in a footrace across the eastern fields. Vereesa stood proudly, red-faced, mouth open as if she shouted her victory. Alleria winced, hands behind her head, trying and failing to catch her breath, and Sylvanas was doubled over, one hand raised to the camera, admitting her defeat graciously. Liadrin had snapped the photo and Lirath cheered for them all in equal measure, clapping his baby hands loudly.

Jaina smiles sadly, but does not ask for an explanation. Sylvanas says, quite against her rational brain, "Vereesa was always the fastest of us. The best shot too."

There is a flash of something on Jaina's face, surprise at the abrupt information sharing or a more sinister contemplation, Sylvanas cannot tell. "I've never seen you miss a shot," she says.

Sylvanas' lips quirk ruefully. "I miss on occasion. We all do."

"Intentionally?"

Sylvanas scowls at the notion. "No archer worth her salt misses intentionally."

A flash of Calia Menethil passes her mind, the blonde woman on her back, arrow in her chest, blood pooling between her breasts as she gasped and gasped and gasped. Sylvanas botched that shot. She felt so afraid, so betrayed.

Even smaller issues can compromise her accuracy. She remembers how, on the archery range, she missed in front of Nathanos and her Rangers after a particularly vitriolic exchange with Jaina. Then another loathsome moment springs up: her clutching Jaina's frightened form against her body in the Warchief's study, claws digging into her cheek, watching in the mirror as her magic slipped away in terror.

"I suppose I miss for the same reason you sometimes drop your spells." Sylvanas says this with no hint of condescension or blame. It is simply a fact, hard and true. "Being emotionally compromised."

Jaina's eyebrows furrow as if she's parsing through a dense academic text, or she doesn't know how to define "emotionally compromised."

Sylvanas turns back to the stairs and continues to climb, careful to place her feet in locations that Jaina can manage. They pass more pictures, some formal portraits of the family in regal attire, some of the Windrunners at ease, shooting at the range or out on hunts. There is one with Vereesa smiling on Liadrin's back, one arm wrapped around her shoulder as she waves her training bow. She wonders if Jaina recognizes the redhead, masked by her youthful age and blue eyes, not that strange shade of greenish-gold she now has.

"Vereesa never misses," Sylvanas says. Against her better judgment, she stops to gaze at the portraits now too. The house is quiet except for the wind creaking against its frame, and she appreciates that Jaina isn't constantly pestering her for details. She could provide it on her own terms, and that would have to suffice. She supposes that it's easier to feed her information about the other Windrunners than it is to bother explaining herself, her least favorite topic.

"Even without the benefit of Thas'dorah," she continues with a touch of pride, "I've no doubt Vereesa could out-shoot me and Alleria both."

"That's high praise," Jaina says. Her face softens as she holds the light up to the wall.

"It's the truth," she says, and continues her trek upstairs.

On the second floor they traverse a hallway of multiple bedrooms in various states of disarray, but do not pause to peer inside any of them. The remains of some human litter the floor, the spine long ago snapped by something stronger. Sylvanas hears no sounds of Scourge, and saw no sign of them inside with her sisters, but she has already been incorrect once today and the thought of it happening twice rankles her.

They move to the back staircase, equally shoddy, full of older pictures illuminated by Jaina's small light. The first portrait they pass is Sylvanas' least favorite, one her mother commissioned. It is a monstrous, stitched-together thing of Lireesa and Gadanis and all of their children, even the ones who were not alive when Vereesa and Lirath were born. Her twin brothers, silver-haired and handsome, flank a young, smiling Alleria: Aithlin on her left and Seldor on her right. The three of them wear their Ranger's uniforms as they stand proud behind the couch. Sylvanas sits beside her father on the sofa, Lirath in her lap, and Vereesa holds her mother's hand on the other side, her little duplicate.

The painting is delusional. A fabricated memory Lireesa concocted in her decades-long depression following Aithlin and Seldor's deaths. She never recovered from it, even after Vereesa and Lirath were born.

Sylvanas turns with a start when she realizes that Jaina is no longer facing the portrait, but is watching her closely, reading her unhappy face in the low light. Jaina looks away quickly, back at the ground and, if she has a question about the other Windrunners, she doesn't ask it. Sylvanas glares, and continues up the flight of stairs. She does not linger on her parents' wedding portrait at the top, striding past it quickly, knowing that Jaina will still stop to look anyway, just for a glimpse. Her curiosity is annoying and insatiable.

Sylvanas passes through the third floor hallway where the studies and play rooms used to be, reaching for a moth-eaten cord to the attic stairs. She pulls it down gently, dust falling onto her hood, and unfolds the collapsible stairs. "Stay here," she murmurs.

Jaina says nothing, but watches her climb. The attic floor is rickety and thin, full of dead bugs and wet wood, heavy with a musty smell, far less appealing than the scent of Jaina's magic. There are a few old chests and pieces of furniture covered in sheets, and Sylvanas considers it strange that this area hasn't been looted. Perhaps no one got past the second floor.

She finds her mother's chest, unlatches the front of it, and gingerly begins to sort through the contents. Her Ranger-General armor, her favorite hairbrush, a locket with pictures of her and her husband inside. Two little stuffed dragons, one blue and one green, that belonged to Aithlin and Seldor. She wonders if Vereesa's boys would like them, or if Alleria's son had a favorite toy growing up. No doubt Salandria would have enjoyed the dolls, if only they were red. Sylvanas swallows and sets them back inside.

She finds a garment bag at the bottom of the chest, folded neatly in half. She unzips the front of it, peeking at her mother's white wedding dress, simple and understated. She sighs lightly, relieved to find the dress in good condition, unsullied by age and thieves.

When Sylvanas returns to the third floor, garment bag folded over one arm, she finds Jaina standing by her parents' wedding portrait, openly admiring the painting. Her white hair glows in the arcane light as she turns to Sylvanas, eyeing the clothing she carries. She says, "You look like them."

Sylvanas sneers and brushes past her to lead the way downstairs, her ears pinned low. She shouldn't have allowed Jaina to join her. It wasn't worth the commentary.

Her voice is heavy and low when she replies, "Don't insult them."

The wind whistles through the broken windows of the third floor, and she can barely hear Jaina softly reply, "I didn't."

They step around the crumbling stairs and back to the front door in silence. As Sylvanas touches the handle, about to open the doors, she freezes. The sound of moans, closer this time, fills her ears. "The Scourge are outside," she says.

Jaina steps beside her, placing her short, human ear against the door. She glances up at Sylvanas with a look of eagerness. "We can clear them out so they won't come inside, if you like," she says. "Or I can portal us from here." 

The doorknob rattles. Sylvanas lifts her hand away with a scowl. She doesn't want them inside the Spire.

How furious she feels at the situation, at Arthas Menethil's long-reaching power, his ability to ruin her life and her undeath at every passing turn. At her gross underestimation of the situation in front of Jaina, at how she might not have made it this far alone. At her dead brothers and parents, and at her missing sisters, who probably never thought about their necklaces or the broken bonds between them. She is always alone, and always fighting a losing battle.

"I want them gone," says Sylvanas.

"Here," says Jaina, extinguishing her light and holding out her free arm to take the garment bag. Sylvanas eyes her suspiciously. "You need both hands for your bow. Let's get rid of them and we can leave."

"Fine. Open on three," she says. Sylvanas hands her the bag, drawing her weapon. She begins her countdown.

Jaina steps back, eyes glowing, staff pointed at the door, prepared to blast back anything standing in their way, the garment bag clutched protectively against her chest.

On three, a piercing wall of ice shoots from Jaina's staff, bright and sharp, slicing through the chests of a mob of Scourge. They slump into themselves, falling messily onto the stone porch, their rotten bodies too weak to keep moving. Jaina pushes forward into them, a violent white spike in the night.

Sylvanas closes the door and bursts forward, vaulting the first wave of them, thankful for her superior dark vision yet again. She volleys arrow after arrow into the writhing mass, stopping only to be sure that Jaina is following behind. The Archmage rapidly fires off more ice bolts and turns her body away from an exploding zombie, its gore splattering against her back and head. She curls into herself, protecting the dress still clutched to her stomach, trying her best to shield it from being drenched in blood.

The Scourge surrounds them, more active at night, their moans and gasps a cacophony combined with shattering of ice and the howling wind. The noise is profound, more than enough to draw everything within a mile radius toward them, more undead than she has seen since the Lich King's rise. Sylvanas turns in a circle, still firing at anything that moves, precise and deadly, and rapidly running out of ammunition.

Jaina is wreaking havoc over the wall of undead bodies, her scent so powerful it covers their rotten flesh, but she will run out of mana as surely as Sylvanas will run out of arrows. She shoots again, the shaft of her arrow piercing through a zombie's gaping mouth. That, or they will defeat this first wave of corpses with no power left to portal home.

"Cover your ears!" Sylvanas screams.

"I can't!" Jaina shouts back. Her hands are full: she would drop her staff or drop the wedding dress, and the ferocity in her face tells Sylvanas that Jaina Proudmoore would rather die than accepting either of those options. The creatures close in around her, skinless hands grasping and swiping as they heave forward.

Sylvanas sprints to Jaina, her speed an echo of her attack in the study, and she presses their bodies together forcefully. She wraps one arm around Jaina's head, the other holding Deathwhisper, and covers her ears, her mother's wedding dress pressed between them. Jaina's ear presses hard against Sylvanas' chestplate, caged on the other side by the palm of her sharp gauntlet, her eyes glowing and wide.

Sylvanas turns her head away, takes a deep breath, and wails.

She has seen on the battlefield the way enemy noses, ears, and eyes begin to bleed when she lets loose her banshee scream; she has seen knees buckle beneath the staunchest warriors, collapsing in on themselves, their bones rattling, dizzy and blinded and deaf. 

The pressure of her wail builds into the Scourge, exploding every remaining blood vessel left in their bodies until at last they rupture, a fountain of bone and blood frothing in a circle around them. She feels Jaina go limp again, only for a moment, before she regains her footing and catches her breath. This time she holds onto her spell, a flickering energy still courses through her.

The wail ends and blessed silence fills the space around them. Jaina's head lolls and she blinks hard, her grime-soaked hair still whipping behind her in the wind. She clutches the dress between them desperately, tilting her bleeding nose to the side, away from the garment bag. Despite covering her ears, Sylvanas held her too close to the wail. The collateral damage is obvious.

"Can you make a portal?" she asks, breath fogging between them. Sylvanas sees movement in the distance, a second wave of Scourge shambles through the treeline toward them. Her wail has called them all.

Jaina nods, a micro-movement, and waves her staff. Instead of a doorway portal, this one opens beneath them in a wide circle and they drop onto the warm marble floors of Orgrimmar's throne room along with several limp corpses that follow them through. Sylvanas lands on her feet, holding Jaina and the wedding dress against her. The portal closes overhead and Jaina releases her magic, slumping into Sylvanas' shoulder with a groan. She presses the garment bag into her arms, safe and spotless.

"We probably should have just left," Jaina mumbles. She backs away from Sylvanas slowly, still unsteady on her feet, boots sliding in the wetness and gore they brought from the Ghostlands with them. She sits on the stairs before the throne, her shoulders slouching from injury and exhaustion. "That is a," she closes her eyes, " _potent_ wail you have." 

Before Sylvanas can answer or apologize, the entry doors swing open and Alina stalks forward in silence, bow drawn. She quickly takes in the scene before her, namely the miscellaneous body parts littering the ground and the blood still flowing from Jaina's nose and caking the length of her back, then deeply bows. "Forgive me, Dark Lady, Lord Admiral. I heard voices." Her ears lower, and with a hint of trepidation she asks, "Are you both well?"

_Of course it's Alina, the most squeamish of them all._

"Yes," says Jaina. "This is not my blood. Most of it."

Sylvanas holds out the garment bag and says, "Take this to Abnar, please. Tell him to see to alterations at once."

Alina bows, a look of nervous disgust on her face as she watches Jaina wipe her bloody nose with the back of her glove, and she leaves with the wedding dress.

They are alone in the throne room again, Sylvanas looking a bit dusty, but Jaina looking quite worse for the wear. She blinks heavily again, as if recovering her eyesight.

Nothing went according to Sylvanas' plan, not the way she'd rehearsed it in her head. She was sloppy and vulnerable, distracted by the ghosts of her past, but the practical owl spirit tells her once again that she needed a hunting partner. Who could fault that logic when it was so demonstrably successful?

"Shall I get you a towel?" Sylvanas asks.

"No," Jaina offers her a small smile. "I'm going to portal straight to my bathroom, I think."

"You can use the one upstairs, if you wish."

"I don't want to track," she gestures to her armor, now the ruddy brown of dried blood, " _this_ all through Grommash Hold, and I won't have anything to change into once I'm clean."

"I'm not certain you will ever be clean after that," says Sylvanas. She offers Jaina a hand and helps her rise to her feet. They stand close together, so close that Sylvanas is thankful for the grime that seeps through Jaina's hair, masking the scent of fresh blood in her nose.

"This is what I get for accepting a midnight stroll through the Ghostlands." She shrugs, "Though it's nice to have a mission without the weight of a whole army dragging you down. It's been ages."

"Thank you," Sylvanas blurts, the words jumbling in her mouth, awkward and uncertain, "for answering my letter." The expression of gratitude feels hollow compared to what Jaina did for her: the food, the transportation, the protection, all without prying or pleading for more information at the Spire. A pinprick of shame needles at her unbeating heart.

Jaina faces her, lips stained red from the blood she didn't fully wipe away. "You're welcome," she says. "You were right though, in the letter. It was important."

Jaina steps back, opening a final portal- yet another demonstration of her tremendous power: she shows no signs of mana drainage- and says, "Good night."

"Good night," Sylvanas replies.

The portal to Boralus closes behind her, and Sylvanas watches her go with a sense of contentment and accomplishment, a vast improvement over her earlier mood. At least now she's found a suitable wedding dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just hit 100k! :))))
> 
> Thank you for going with me on this journey of sad wlw. I've never written this much in my life and am very proud of it!


	22. Shandris, Calia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different. The rating just jumped up to Explicit. :)

It is snowing in the pre-dawn light of Lor'danel. Shandris can just see the snowflakes falling through the hole in the canopy of her tent, melting in the heat of her fire long before they make it to the ground inside. She lays on her back, quiet and peaceful, trying her best to keep still and not disturb Alleria. One arm wraps around her shoulders, naked and cold outside of their blankets, but the chill is certainly worth Alleria's soft, steady breathing as she nestles her face into the crook of Shandris' neck.

These moments are her favorite: when the world hasn't begun to turn and her multitude of responsibilities seem so distant. Alleria's powerful muscles are relaxed and untensed for once, though Shandris is always careful not to accidentally touch her bruises. She is still healing, however slowly.

Alleria inhales deeply, pressing her nude form closer to Shandris, sleepily shifting her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes open slowly, and she says in a scratchy voice, "Good morning, Sentinel-General."

Shandris smiles back, "Good morning, Void-General. How do you fare?"

"Sleepy," she says and her eyes close again.

Shandris runs her fingers up the base of Alleria's head, gently raking their way through her golden hair. Alleria loves being touched, loves the tingling sensation of skin against skin. She told Shandris in a quiet moment the night prior that she hadn't been hugged in years before they met. That the last time someone embraced her it was Anduin Wrynn and his Light left her screaming in pain.

That, for just an instant, her sisters held her hands before they rode to the Spire, a brief second of normalcy, and she recoiled from them both. She told her about their necklaces, an emerald, a sapphire, a ruby, and what they meant to her, and how she so wickedly tossed hers aside after they fought, how she abandoned her sisters again. Alleria wept into Shandris' chest, quivering and ashamed, and admitted that she later tried to find her necklace, as golden and green as she is, but it was long gone. Her sisters and their necklaces were absent too, and Windrunner Spire was vacant again.

_"Sylvanas was so cold," Alleria said. "She was not how I remember her, like the Spire itself."_

Shandris wonders if everyone on Azeroth has this sort of monument: a dead space that used to flourish and teem with life. The grotesquery of Teldrassil is one of many ruins.

Alleria murmurs, "Your hand is cold. Come here." She slowly rolls onto her back, reaching for Shandris' exposed arm. She tucks it safely under the comforter, and pulls Shandris over her like a night elf blanket.

Shandris thinks about the line between Sylvanas as she was and as she is in Alleria's mind. Not unlike the difference between Tyrande, reliable, loving, steady, and the Night Warrior, unpredictable, cruel, vindictive. Her parents were her rock. She felt so confident in their togetherness, their permanence. The lover's leaf, alor'el, bloomed for them. Did that not indicate the perfection of their union? She chides herself for believing old superstitions.

Yet Tyrande abandons them. She has neither taken her husband, who has seemingly disappeared from the waking world, nor her daughter, who now sleeps with the sister of the woman who burned their home, but Maiev, the Warden who hated her for a thousand, thousand years. They are aligned in their revenge, as if that is all that matters.

_Perhaps that is enough in these times. Perhaps that is what Jaina now feels for Sylvanas: an alignment where no affection can bloom._ Shandris' eyebrows knit together and she thinks, _What a wicked fate to make them marry for this peace._

"What are you thinking about?" Alleria murmurs, fingers trailing up the blue skin of Shandris' shoulder.

She hides nothing; it is not in her nature to keep secrets. "The wedding," Shandris says. "How awful it must be to marry someone you do not love." She rests the flat of her ear against Alleria's chest, enjoying the sound of her heartbeat.

"I feel for Jaina," says Alleria with a hard edge to her voice, "but it is the least Sylvanas can do after her monstrosities. It is a small price to pay." Her heart pounds harder, angry and strong.

Shandris kisses the skin beneath her collarbone. She says, "I think Sylvanas will spend the rest of her existence paying small prices. No doubt Jaina will hold her to task if she fails to uphold her end of the bargain."

She thinks of how the First Peers stood arm-in-arm in Dalaran when she approached the dais, how there was something agonized in Sylvanas' gaze, and something watchful in Jaina's. Did Sylvanas see the flames of Teldrassil behind Shandris when she stood before them? Did she sense the looming threat of the Night Warrior's justice in the Sentinel-General? Or did she simply see all the broken kaldorei bodies littering the beaches of Darkshore, more nameless figures for the war's death tally?

Shandris thinks she saw it all. Sylvanas Windrunner was once the Ranger-General of Silvermoon, the greatest hero of the quel'dorei. Even undeath could not take her guilt away: she strayed too far from her path. At Teldrassil she veered into the brutality of the Lich King, her wretched maker, and the whole world watched her fall.

_A wicked fate indeed._

"That's true. There is no one better than Jaina Proudmoore for keeping Sylvanas in line," says Alleria. "No doubt my sister hates it. She was always stubborn."

She idly presses her lips to Shandris' forehead- kissing her because she can, and she enjoys it, and Shandris enjoys it too- and asks, "Do you think I should go to the wedding? Am I even allowed to attend if I didn't sign the treaty?"

Shandris props herself up on her elbow, pushing a strand of Alleria's hair away from her face. She says, "You can come as my guest if you wish to be there, treaty or not. Your friend and your sister are being married, regardless of the circumstances. You have the right to attend." 

There is something lost in Alleria, a confidence that Shandris thinks used to blossom in abundance, that has been slowly whittled away by pain, isolation, and a lack of support. She saw fragments of it on Vereesa's dazed face in Dalaran when they hugged, her arms slowly wrapping around Shandris' waist as if she couldn't remember how to embrace someone. Shandris is not prepared to look so deeply into Sylvanas' face, but she suspects she would find a shard of that hollowness there too, sickly and hateful.

Alleria's eyes search her face. "I think that I would like to go," she says, "if it's with you."

Shandris smiles, "Then it's a date."

Alleria kisses her, smiling against her lips, but as she resettles among the pillows, her joy melts back into a sad thoughtfulness. She says, "I missed Vereesa's wedding. I was through the Dark Portal by that point, not that Turalyon would have wanted to go anyway. He thinks celebrations are a waste of time at best."

"Even ceremonies governed by the Light?"

"Yes," she says. "Anything resembling a party is "improper and disrespectful" to the faith. I imagine he won't be at this wedding either." Alleria frowns, uncomfortable, "I'm sorry I brought him up. I shouldn't be starting your day like this."

"You can talk about whatever you need to talk about," says Shandris lightly. "It doesn't bother me, except that he was a fool for keeping you away from parties. I imagine you're a wonderful dancer."

"I haven't danced in centuries. No doubt I'm a bumbling ox now," Alleria laughs lightly, turning her head away, her self-deprecating smile somehow more charming. She runs her warm palm up Shandris' arm, pulling at the blankets that slip down her back. She quietly asks, "Are you worried about what they might say about us?"

Shandris tilts her head, surprised by the question. Having Alleria by her side, sharing her space and experiences, feels entirely natural to her. "No. Nothing they can say matters to me. I would love to have you there, even if you step on my toes."

Alleria smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes, bright and playful. "After I break a few of them, I'm sure you'll regret that sentiment."

"A few toes, a few ribs. We'll be even."

Alleria pulls Shandris down, flush against her skin, her voice coquettish and sweet, "Shame on you, Sentinel-General, tackling your guests. Come back down here and make it up to me."

"I'm afraid it may take me ages to atone, Lady Windrunner," she kisses her neck. "Hours at least."

Alleria hums, the sound filling Shandris with warmth, and says, "Then you'd better start now." Shandris agrees as she slips beneath the comforter, never one to shirk her duties.

* * *

Derek holds his pistol to the man's temple, barrel pressed against his wet, blonde hair. The man's clothes, once the robes of a noble Tidesage, are ratty and filthy, and he curls in on himself, frightened and ashamed, as the four of them stand beneath the stairs leading to Calia Menethil's apartment. He would be panting if he needed to breathe.

Calia Menethil runs hot, her blood permanently feverish, scalding with the fervor of the Light. She is only a few degrees shy of the rain sizzling off of her pale, undead skin, evaporating the instant it lands. She and Derek had been shopping at the markets, the only two customers at so early an hour and during so terrible a downpour. She finds that they are uniquely suited for such brutal environments: less affected by the biting winter air, no need to sleep in to recover their strengths. They prefer to shop for their paltry groceries when fewer Kul Tirans were available to eye them with the typical balance of hostility and curiosity. Calia cares very little for their opinions- the public's eyes have been fixated on her from the moment of her birth, her first birth- but their darkened gazes bother Derek.

Yet there was a novel sensation this morning: a pair of eyes that seemed to follow from the moment they left their apartments to the moment they returned, poorly hidden, more gawking than spying. Calia has felt she was being watched for weeks, catching a cloaked figure disappearing behind the stalls of the shops, an unnatural rustling in the trash bins outside. Derek insisted that he join her everywhere, her unofficial bodyguard, a trusty Proudmoore and his trusty pistol at the ready.

Her stalker had but to step too heavily in the mud, the squelch of a boot sinking low, and Derek fired. Calia hadn't even jumped at the sound of the gunshot.

"Thomas?" asks Derek, his eyes furious. "What are you doing here?"

Calia stands statue-still as the rain pours down her face, white eyes appraising the scene. The undead man is most uninteresting, obviously an inept spy from the Horde, though if he really is the long-lost tidesage, Thomas Zelling, Calia questions why he was sent to keep tabs on her instead of the woman standing beside him, obviously a rogue, whose hand rests protectively on his shoulder.

Had she not so deftly intervened- dropping out of thin air, invisible, a furious blur of movement beneath the staircase- Derek's first shot would have most certainly shown Thomas Zelling to his second grave. As Thomas had been watching Calia, this ruddy-haired woman, this rogue-- _Lilian Voss_ , she thinks. _The poor wretch of a girl from the Scarlet Monastery._ \-- had been watching Thomas.

"Don't answer that, Thomas," says Lilian. Her wiry muscles coil beneath slick purple armor, fingertips grazing the dagger on her hip. Though she speaks to Thomas, she addresses only Calia, her sharp, mangled face issues a challenge, a taunt. She knows exactly who she's speaking to, the former heir of Lordaeron, her monarch once-upon-a-time. "We're at peace now. You're allowed to be in Boralus with your family."

Calia tilts her head and the rain drips down the column of her neck. _A flagrant, bold lie. How captivating._ She stares back at Lilian, eyes trailing the stripes of gruesome stitches that frame her face, "Yes, Thomas. You must be very confused. Your family doesn't live here."

Lilian glares up at her, the beginning of a feral smile curling at her lip. She isn't fooled by Calia's words, as Calia was not fooled by hers. They both recognize the willing suspension of disbelief like the first note of a favorite song. But the truth of the matter is, if Lilian Voss wanted her or Derek Proudmoore dead, they would be gutted by now. The rogue came for Thomas Zelling: she came to protect him from himself, from his assignment, from the one who ordered him to Boralus.

Thomas' eyes flit back and forth between Calia and Lilian, far more frightened of their exchange than the gun still pointed at his head.

Derek turns to her incredulously. "Calia," he begins.

She does not give him time to argue. "Derek, take Thomas inside. He must be terribly cold," she says. She looks to Lilian. "Let us not stand in the rain any longer. We shall find you both something suitable to wear."

Derek lowers his gun, jaw clenched, but obeys her as he always does. Thomas follows him upstairs after Lilian nods, then she returns her full attention to Calia, a minkish smile on her lips. Calia does not return it.

She gracefully climbs the stairs and unlocks the front door to her small apartment, tidy and homely, a far cry from her magnificent quarters in Lordaeron. She shares a porch with Derek, a small alley between their homes, the complex raised on stilts for when the spring rains flood the whole harbor district of Boralus. She locks the door behind them and sets her bag of groceries in the kitchen, vegetables and halibut for a fish stew Derek plans to cook for them later.

Her guest she leaves to drip in the living room, a puddle forming beneath her.

"What a beacon of the Light you are," says Lilian, eyes taking in her surroundings, "welcoming me and Thomas so readily. Truly, you are magnanimous to lost wanderers from the Horde."

Calia returns in silence to the living room and strides around her in slow, unhurried circles. She hides neither her curious gaze, nor her obvious disdain for the ruse so ineptly presented before her, but she lowers her voice and says, "Is this the part where I pretend to believe you, Lilian Voss?"

Lilian watches her circle. Her voice is tinged with an appealing staccato, just a touch defensive. "Is this the part where I pretend to fear you, Calia Menethil?"

Calia's face betrays no emotion except the sheen of disappointment that serves her so readily. She was rarely so disciplined in her father's court, she and Arthas both a touch wild, though his indiscretions were far less scandalous than her own. The horse groomers she took to bed, the lowly guards with their ill-fitting armor and coarse language, all rough women with elegant tastes that Calia lived to let them sample. She still enjoys the unsuitables the most.

"Drop your weapons." Calia murmurs, "Who sent you?"

"I sent myself," Lilian grins. Instead of removing her daggers from their sheathes, she unbuckles her heavy belt and lets it fall to the floor with a thud. Her leather armor clings to her muscular body, thin and lean as a whip. 

"And who sent Thomas Zelling to spy?" Calia asks, gingerly stepping over the belt and daggers.

"Poor Thomas is so confused," Lilian simpers.

Calia tilts her head, _Jaina's little wife sent him, of course._

"You know how dreadful it feels to be raised."

She has ample time to study now that she doesn't need sleep. She still partakes in rest on occasion, if the mood strikes her, but most nights she reads on all the subjects she was denied growing up. Swordplay, military strategy, physics, anything and everything she can borrow from Proudmoore Keep's library. She found one book by a Dwarven geologist, a specialist on the center of Azeroth, who named the world's core _plasma_ , the fourth state of matter. Not liquid, nor gas, nor solid, but carrying traits of all three, hypothesized to be the stuff from which all stars are made.

The geologist knew little of plasma except that its temperature is impossibly high, a roiling mass of iron and nickel deep beneath the mantle and crust, alone and burning and unknown.

She thinks it must be terribly lonely to be this unique matter, separated from all its star brethren, so hot that its atoms split even from themselves. That, if the Light made this universe-- and she believes that it must have; that is what they taught her as a Priestess: the Light makes all and knows all and does all-- it was a cruel choice to make plasma special.

But that's how her rebirth felt: like being dragged through plasma, vaporized, melted, ashen, and set to cool on the uncaring surface of the world.

"No," she lies. "My resurrection was rather comforting. A warm bath after cold rain. You should not have strayed so far from the Light, Lilian."

Her scarred lip curls up, and Calia counts herself the victor. Lilian snarls, "You know who I am. Do not presume to lecture me about the nature of the Light. You're not a princess anymore, and I am not beholden to Lordaeron."

"You have never been beholden to my kingdom. You jump from one cult to the next like a lowborn hellion. There is not so great a difference between the Scarlet Crusade and your Dark Lady."

At this, Lilian smirks. "Are you sure you want to point fingers, priestess? At least Sylvanas Windrunner offers us a choice. From where I'm standing your Light looks a bit overzealous."

_It is,_ Calia thinks. She will never voice this heresy, this honesty. _The Light is fanatical and cruel._

"You may try to place yourself on equal footing with me, but I'm afraid we have nothing in common."

Her shirt and skirt, white and royal blue in the Kul Tiran style, cling and drip, sheer and revealing. Calia does not cover herself intentionally- what a shame it would be to hide such a body- and waits for the moment she catches her prey staring, the flicker of an eye, a flush on her cheeks.

But Lilian turns her head openly, her gaze following Calia's slow circling, eyes hooded. She hides nothing, but stares at her lips and says, "There might be one thing."

Calia has always been more akin to her father than her mother, aside from her elegant bone structure and needling words. _What was mother, really, aside from breeding stock?_ Her mother always waited to be given little gifts, whatever leftovers her father thought to discard at her feet. But Calia is done with waiting for scraps. She takes now, whatever she wants.

They stand in silence for a tense moment before Calia exhales, "What's that, Lilian?"

Her arrogance has always been her downfall, wicked and demanding. She wants her power back; she is entitled to it.

Lilian reaches up a scarred, calloused hand as if to cup her cheek, as if to kiss her sweetly, but Calia twists away, repulsed. She snaps, "Take off your clothes."

Lilian steps forward and closes the gap between them as her fingers unbuckle her armor piece by piece. Vambraces, greaves, pauldrons fall heavy on the floor and she grins again, that awful, devilish smile, her lips parted lasciviously, and she asks, "Is this more to your liking, princess?"

The Forsaken woman stands nude in her living room, as comfortable out of her armor as she is wearing it, the clammy Boralus air chilling her dead skin. Lilian has the body of a warrior, young when she died, strong and supple and fearless. Her flesh is marred by a thousand scars and stitches, many wounds from her life and death, but not a modicum of shame.

Calia appreciates her confidence, her daring, unbroken eye contact. What does a cold, ruined body matter to her? She burns like the center of the earth; she likes the texture of the scars.

She takes firm hold of Lilian's jaw, her index finger dragging down her lower lip. "No," she whispers, her unsmiling mouth hovering inches over Lilian's. "You've done nothing to please me yet."

She pushes her down into the sofa, her wet hair leaving an imprint on the back of it when she lands. Calia stands over her fully-clothed, and nudges Lilian's foot to one side with one of her own, only smiling when her legs are fully spread.

"I thought you were going to find me something to wear, Calia. It seems you're more interested," she arches her back, "in leaving me like this."

"I said I would find something suitable. My clothing is far too fine for you," she says. "I'm afraid this is all that suits you."

Lilian leans her head back, exposing her long neck. "How fortunate that you seem to be enjoying it so _deeply_."

Her fingers reach out for the hem of Calia's shirt, just managing to graze the cotton before Calia steps away. "Mmm." Calia says, "Put your hands behind your back."

Lilian shrugs, her nonchalance annoying. She wraps her hands behind her smugly, her legs still spread. "Like this, princess?"

Several seconds pass before Calia speaks again. She coolly admires her handiwork, containing the growing urge to touch her, to remove her own clothes and sit naked on her lap with a matching smile, but this will not work without discipline. She refuses to give Lilian that power. Calia walks behind the sofa, her right hand trailing across Lilian's shoulders and breasts, her left turning her head away to expose her neck, to make it impossible for Lilian to kiss her.

"Exactly like that," she breathes into her ear. Calia's left middle finger slips into Lilian's mouth, wet against her tongue. "This is what little sluts from the Horde get."

She relishes the way her breath catches in her throat, and how she can still feel her smiling as she moans. Calia leans over the back of the sofa and plants wet kisses against her neck, grazing her with her teeth and her too-hot exhales. How incredibly _cold_ the skin beneath her lips is, a cool balm on a summer day, her small breasts so gratifyingly soft beneath her palms.

She hasn't fucked a woman since she died. Her hand slides lower, glancing against the taut muscles of her stomach, thumb catching on a mostly-healed knife puncture from her youth. She wonders if it would hurt if she healed her with the Light. _Would it mend your wounds, or leave you screaming, Lilian?_

But it has never been about causing pain, nor receiving it. She longs for control, only control.

Her right hand sinks lower, the pad of her fingertip sliding against the only part of Lilian that's wetter than her dripping mouth, and she explores her, feather-soft and practiced. She feels the rise and fall of Lilian's chest, the panting breaths she doesn't need to take-- _Why does she breathe? Habit? Pleasure?_ \-- and Calia sucks at the base of her ear, tongue playing against her earlobe. 

She strokes her in a steady rhythm, closer and closer to deepening her touch, to truly being inside her, and her left hand, dripping just as wet, wraps gracefully around her neck. She slides more deeply into her, tight and slick, squeezing her neck softly as she pushes inside. Calia presses her mouth to Lilian's temple when her breath hitches, not quite a kiss, and Lilian's mouth closes against the moan in her throat, desperately sucking in her lips.

_Finally, that smile is gone._

Calia squeezes her neck harder, her fingers return to circling, and Lilian's wet hair presses against her shoulder as she writhes in earnest. Calia rocks as Lilian moves against her, watching her fingernails dig into the flesh of her forearms still uselessly trapped behind her back. She finds herself biting her own lips as Lilian whimpers, her voice growing louder and louder, pushing herself down the sofa and grinding into Calia's right palm.

Calia waits for the last moment as she works her- the final inhaled gasp, the last desperate push of Lilian's hips- and then she whispers, "Come for your princess."

Lilian throws back her head to scream and Calia clamps down hard on her mouth, only partially muffling her orgasm, pressing her against her chest until she whimpers and goes limp in her arms. Calia holds her cheek-to-cheek in exquisite agony, relishing how Lilian's lips part and she sucks for air between her fingers. There is a fleeting moment where Calia wants to turn her head and kiss her deeply, but she pushes it aside and releases her body instead; she cannot show her hand now, the game is just beginning. 

Lilian unthreads her arms and rolls her neck and shoulders like a stretching cat. She leans her head against the back of the sofa, slowly opening her eyes, and stares back at Calia, who looms over her, lording her victory. Her dreadful smirk returns and she rasps, "Why don't you come down here, and I'll treat you like royalty deserves?"

The challenge in her words, the veiled threat, is like a drug to Calia Menethil. She loves this game. She wants it desperately, she can feel her own wetness like she's never experienced before; she wants _everything_ , but most of all she wants her power back with all the certainty and confidence that comes with it.

"No, I'm afraid not," she murmurs, hands resting on either side of Lilian's shoulders, still leaning down over her. "I only let pretty girls fuck me."

She waits for the pain of her refusal to darken Lilian's face, for the begging to begin. Calia relishes those moments with her lovers, the control and intensity it gives her, the gratitude they feel when she finally succumbs to their touch. They always beg for it: her favorite part. It's been years since she made another woman grovel at her feet, imploring and supplicating.

But Lilian just smiles again, that horrible, impish thing, and stretches languidly across the sofa, her lithe body relaxed and content. She reaches out slowly, her thumb playing against Calia's slick knuckles, and says, "Better call a pretty girl then, princess."

Calia blinks and feels as if she's been struck. Her face remains empty, emotionless, but her fingers dig into the back of the sofa.

Lilian rises with a final smile and dresses quickly, unperturbed by her damp armor. As she unlocks the front door and steps out into the rain, she says, "Thanks for warming me up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, Calia, you played yourself.
> 
> So I'm retconning everything about her having a fucking secret baby. Not in this lore! She's a giant lesbian, obviously. And my faceclaims for Calia Menethil and Lilian Voss are Charlize Theron and Keira Knightley, respectively. So just enjoy that mental picture for a while.


	23. Vereesa, Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone make me an Ink and Honor themed Windrunner suffering bingo card.

A message is delivered so early in the morning that Vereesa reads it bleary-eyed and dehydrated, blinking away a headache for which she has the wine to thank. As she walks barefooted on the cold stones of her foyer, it takes her a moment to recognize the sharp script is Alleria's. 

_Vereesa,_

_I write you from Lor'danel where I have been staying, and offer you my apologies for my distance. The recent months have taken their toll on me and I admit that I have not handled these changes as gracefully as you have. Please trust that I am recovering from my own mistakes, and am doing better now than I have in years. We have much to discuss._

If she couldn't tell from the penmanship who sent this letter, the direct tone could only belong to her eldest sister: Alleria had a certain economy to her language after she returned from the Dark Portal.

_Though I am rude for giving you next to no notice of my request, I wish to attend Jaina and Sylvanas' wedding as Shandris Feathermoon's guest. Again, we have much to discuss._

Vereesa sets the letter on her kitchen counter, squinting at it as she sits on a bartop chair and steeps her morning tea. Shandris told her in Dalaran that Alleria was safely resting in Lor'danel, implying that she was previously injured somehow. She held her in a quick hug, warm and solid, inviting her to see her sister in Kalimdor, but Vereesa hasn't followed up and isn't certain Alleria would want to see her anyway. Though the distance between them is different than the chasm of betrayal between her and Sylvanas, it is equally vast. Too much has changed; their necklaces are abandoned at the Spire, as dead as their three brothers.

She refocuses on the letter.

_Without approval from you, Jaina, Anduin, and Sylvanas, I shall not attend. I have written each of them separately._

The notion that Alleria would willingly contact Sylvanas strikes a chord in Vereesa's mind, as if she cannot reconcile her eldest sister's behaviors with this new knowledge. She offers no reasoning for wanting to attend the wedding, she simply expresses her desire to do so, perhaps out of some old sense of duty to support her family, though that certainly never stopped her from leaving before. Vereesa kneads her forehead, furrowed in stress. She's not certain she can trust Alleria and Sylvanas together, even with Jaina and the eyes of the public mediating. For a moment she doesn't recognize the coil in her belly as fear, hot and wriggling: _What if they quarrel again? What if they turn into monsters and I cannot stop them this time?_

She bites her lip, pressing the heel of her hand to her eyes. They terrified her at the Spire: her sisters have become something more, something sinister and ancient and hungry. She stood between them, trying to pacify two unfathomable creatures, a meager, frightened mortal with her bow and her guilt, and no hope to understand them. Alleria and Sylvanas left Vereesa behind long ago. 

_I hope you and the twins are faring well. I miss them._

And there, scribbled in the small space above her name as if it was a later addition, as if an afterthought, she wrote:

_I miss you._

- _Alleria_

The words twist in her stomach. Vereesa lays her head on the marble counter where she and Thalyssra made ravioli the night before, and she weeps into her sister's letter. She hasn't cried in so long, not anywhere the boys could see her, not anywhere that would conflict with her endless responsibilities or level-headed reputation. But the kitchen feels safer after last night, and she's not sure she could contain the dam of her tears with all the knives of Azeroth at her throat.

She is just like her mother, Lireesa's little mimic, her parrot. Her only inheritance is her dreadful anguish and grief: she will give it to her boys, she knows this and weeps harder, because now they have more of her than they do Rhonin, and this is all she has left to offer. One day she will apologize to them for her weaknesses, the searing inability to heal, the gaping loneliness that opens wider every year. She remembers the deep, dark blue of her mother's eyes, chronically lost in the past, and shallow as a grave in the present.

She aches for another embrace, one that makes her feel slender and held, the arms around her a reassurance. This is the craving her mother shared and never received: no one held her close after the loss of her sons and husband, no one helped her wade through all the death. There is a wall around the Ranger-General born from the title alone-- Sylvanas knows it and uses the detachment it affords to bear the burden of heavy decisions, Alleria knows it and flees until her distance becomes a wall of its own-- and it blocks out the sunlight until she withers and shrivels like a rotten tulip. 

_Does Halduron Brightwing feel this way?_ Vereesa closes her eyes. _No, this is a novelty of the Windrunners. Halduron has his friends, his family. The sin'dorei aren't so broken after all._

She thinks of Liadrin, her partner-in-crime when they were so young, and how they would help steal Alleria's pillows under Sylvanas' expert tutelage. They would hide under her father's desk with them, a soft fort where they would giggle and shush each other when they heard the click of the door handle.

Gadanis would stick his head inside for a cursory glance, then loudly proclaim, "No sign of them, Lady Sun! Maybe they put them back."

And Alleria's voice, muffled from the floor below, would cry, "They never put them back!"

When the door closed again they would wait out the search, sometimes long enough to fall asleep with their bony knees pressed together in a cramped huddle, and Sylvanas would scoop them up and help their father put them to bed, secure and comfortable in their home.

Last night she felt for the first time in years a sense of something safe and domestic: protecting Thalyssra from popping butter, keeping their glasses full of that delicious, damnable wine, talking about inconsequential things over dinner. Vereesa _tried_ last night, her first real effort in something outside of work-- _no, it's still work, we're still peers,_ she reminds herself, though it feels dubious even as the thought slinks through her mind-- and was surprised by how gratifying it felt. She was late and dinner wasn't ready, she couldn't find a sitter, she didn't take her on a tour, but Thalyssra was kind and understanding and said she had a nice time.

She helped Vereesa without being asked. She was good with the boys.

Rhonin would lay on his back with the twins beside him, one hand raised to the sky. _"Come see the light show, boys. Who can find the north and south stars?"_ A magical dome of heavenly bodies twinkled over them, and Galadin and Giramar would point and argue over how they would navigate according to the constellations. Rhonin would smile at her, an arm behind his head cradling his red hair, and she could not help but smile in return. He made her happy without trying.

Thalyssra made her happy too, though she fears the sensation and doubts the authenticity of her jumbled feelings. She dares not delve into it, that dangerous, misleading desire to take her head into her hands and kiss her. It is contact she craves, contact from anyone, and how cruel, how heartless to make Thalyssra her proxy, her surrogate by default, her prize for drawing Vereesa as her peer. As if the First Arcanist is her Rhonin equivalent, some missing value from her unsolvable equation, and not a variable of her own.

_She is worth more than that_ , she thinks, wiping at her tears _. I just want someone to be kind to me, and she made the mistake of revealing her compassion._

The morning light passes through the window, pale yellow across her folded hands. She reaches for her pen, and writes. She has work to do. 

Her reply to Alleria is warm but short, her language as stilted as her sister's, but she has little time for more and feels hollow again. Still, she expresses her desire to see her at the wedding, and her hope that Sylvanas wishes the same. She does not write it, but as she drinks her green tea she prays that Sylvanas will respond at all.

When the boys wake, yawning and rubbing their eyes on the staircase, they are disappointed that the illusions of Stellagosa and their dragon scales have vanished. Vereesa pushes the red hair from their eyes as they eat their breakfasts, kissing them goodbye before she leaves them with their nanny at the house.

"When is Silgryn coming back?" asks Galadin, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth.

Giramar tugs on her armor. "Can we go to Suramar? I heard Thalyssra talking about it."

"I'll talk to Thalyssra tomorrow," she says. Though she is responsible for coordinating the security detail for the Unification Wedding, she suspects she will have a bit of time at the ceremony itself. A warmth floods her body at the thought of seeing Thalyssra again, half eagerness, half embarrassment.

She retrieves her cloak and bow from the stand near the front door, and welcomes the frigid winter air into her lungs as she steps outside. The shock of it banishes her musings. Her Rangers stand at attention, ready to escort her to Stormwind Keep. Yribria yawns daintily, undoubtedly tired from her late night.

"Good morning," says Vereesa, and she does not miss the way her Rangers perk up in surprise at her rarely-offered pleasantries.

"Good morning, Ranger-General," they reply.

Vereesa stops for a moment on her porch stairs, the thought of Thalyssra's lips so close to her own, a missed opportunity. The heat of the memory, the lust she felt as she tilted her head, is something manageable, easily compartmentalized: the longing of a woman who hasn't been touched in so long.

But the rest of the feelings terrify her. She breathed in the heady perfume of her magic, all jasmine and thyme and vanilla, warm and dark like two bodies safely entwined beneath a blanket. She wants to kiss her, even sweetly, even without the passion of taking her to bed, just to feel her lips and inhale every piece of Thalyssra that she can. This blushing and longing are novel sensations, she thought they were long dead, so unexpected that she doubts their veracity. Except for meaningless flings in her youth, she has only ever been with Rhonin, and she has never kissed a woman.

_"Pink looks nice on you."_ Her mouth flattens. What a dreadful, low compliment for a magnificent woman.

_Is it fair to do that to her, to give her something that might not be real? Is it a genuine feeling, or drunkenness and desperation combined with years of loneliness? Would Thalyssra even want that from me?_ She thinks of her sweet smile and the way she leaned in too, and the crushing disappointment on her face when Vereesa fled and turned away. She worries at the inside of her mouth, _Thalyssra is a good woman who deserves far better than I can give her._

They walk to Stormwind Keep, an imposing force in their winter cloaks, shining silver and royal blue. A Marshall bounds up to them as they approach, anxiety plain on his face. "Ranger-General," he shouts, slipping against the ice-slick cobblestones. He pants, holding out a missive, "I have most dire news."

As she reads her second unexpected letter of the morning, a dark scowl crosses Vereesa's features. She returns the note to the soldier, teeth bared. She will not fail again. Tomorrow the leaders of Azeroth will watch as the Horde and Alliance bind themselves to the peace, the final step of their world's Unification, her sister's wedding. She will not lose her family, her friends, or Thalyssra. Not to something like this.

She sprints inside the Keep, caring not who follows.

* * *

Jaina leans closer, her eyes searching Valeera's face, still shocked that she obeyed Anduin's request to help them rehearse for the wedding. To her surprise, the blood elf leans away from her gaze, pouting at a far wall in the bright Stormwind throne room. The skin beneath Valeera's long eyelashes is greenish-yellow, mottled from a half-healed injury. Given the darkness of it, she'd been brutally struck by something.

"Did you have a black eye?" Jaina asks.

Valeera scowls, "No."

Between them, Anduin hums a soft admonishment, but gives nothing else away. He reties the white silk ribbon around their clasped hands, practicing the Fisherman's Knot as Jaina showed him. To his credit, he is a studious pupil and learned the pattern quickly despite the ceremonial knot being far more complicated than anything a real sailor would use. Valeera and Jaina stand face-to-face and hand-in-hand before him, bound the way she and Sylvanas will be tomorrow evening.

_So sudden_ , she thinks. _I will be married tomorrow. I picked the time and the place, and still it surprises me._

Her exhaustion is catching up with her: day after day her thoughts grow more sluggish and easily jumbled. She woke early this morning, mere hours after returning from the Spire, not from a nightmare but from a drowning sensation: her face wet and sticky, her throat gagged. When her eyes flew open she realized that she ruined her pillow, and her nose poured blood. She'd showered after returning from Orgrimmar, the tiles beneath her feet brown with Scourge gore, but her nosebleed took nearly an hour to staunch and had apparently not fully stopped bleeding.

There is a thin red scratch against her cheekbone where Sylvanas' sharp gauntlet held her in place, protecting Jaina's body as best as she could from the Scourge, and her ears from the weapon of her Banshee voice.

The wail echos in her mind, its thunderous, piercing fury, the explosive overpressure in Jaina's head so overwhelming she could barely stand. She's heard it before from a great distance on the battlefield, but never so close, never pressed against its source, with Sylvanas' strength the only thing keeping her upright. She'd rocked against her when they returned to Orgrimmar, surprised that Sylvanas allowed the contact after the many times she did not, surprised that she ended up eating the horned owl after all-- _she'd fucking better after that freezing little jaunt in the woods--_ and surprised she even thanked her when all was said and done _._

She could not pretend some part of her didn't enjoy the trip, dangerous as it was; what a gift to set out on an adventure without the weight of an army at her back. To have a simple task, a mission, that could be accomplished by her own hands was a simple pleasure she relished.

_Full of surprises_ , Jaina thinks, and her face softens slightly _. I didn't think she had it in her to let bygones by bygones, or to eat again so soon._

But the frigid creep of her exhaustion clouds her mind, as full of memories as the sea is full of monsters. This is the woman who burned Teldrassil and blighted her own city, this is the woman who raised Derek to be used as a weapon against her and sent Baine to die, this is the woman who killed Calia Menethil.

Still, Jaina helped Sylvanas protect her mother's wedding dress and defend her home because it was the right thing to do: in signing the Treaty, in joining their houses and becoming the example of the peace, she knew she had no choice in the matter. Sylvanas is, at the very least, her reluctant ally now. They have the burden of a heavy, uneasy world on their shoulders, and the momentum to keep moving forward because no one else will carry them through. At least that feeble alignment can reassure her: if they fail, they have no one to blame but themselves.

Her exhaustion sinks into her like the shadows of Thros did, half-mad with tearless shuddering, always at inopportune times in the still moments when she isn't honing her focus or preparing for some inevitable, unspeakable disaster. She sniffs, willing the thoughts away. She thinks she must be very tired indeed to be so unguarded around those who can easily read her face.

Valeera squints back at her. "Did you have a bloody nose?"

"No," Jaina lies. She hadn't felt it bleeding again and doesn't want to explain how that particular injury came to be. "What happened to your eye?"

Valeera's eyes roll. "Nothing happened." She changes the subject with a teasing smile, looking down at their clasped hands. "What a disappointment you're going off the market, Jaina. It's not too late to run away with me." She leans forward, her parted lips seductively close to Jaina's. 

"Quit moving," says Anduin.

"Again, thank you for offering," Jaina replies, leaning even closer. "But I must refuse your numerous advances."

"Quit _moving_ ," Anduin repeats.

Valeera interlaces their fingers beneath the ribbons, loosening several of the bows. "I could make you a happy woman, Lord Admiral-"

The warmth of the Light floods her body as Anduin places one hand on her head and the other on Valeera's. Jaina watches as the discoloration beneath her eye smooths into healthy skin again, vanishing completely. She feels her nose's ruptured blood vessels reseal and the cut on her cheek tingles and melts away. She feels physically relieved by his healing but is still as fatigued as ever; some things even the Light cannot fix.

Though this, at least, would prevent a bombardment of questions from her peers and the press at the wedding. They would notice even the smallest of scrapes on her skin; Taelia did this morning.

"Ladies," Anduin says calmly. "I am trying to respect your privacy on the subject of your recent injuries and, while you seem to have no desire to stop bandying words, please," he looks from Jaina to Valeera, "stop fidgeting."

They take a step back from each other with varying degrees of petulance.

"Forgive us," says Jaina. "Valeera brings out the pest in me."

"She brings out the pest in everyone," he says.

"It was always in you both," says Valeera. "Deep, deep down." Her distracted look returns, head tilted to the side as if she's bored now that she can't simultaneously play-flirt with Jaina and annoy Anduin. Jaina isn't certain why she's agreed to be here at all when she would usually just leave any situation that doesn't hold her interest.

"Valeera," says Jaina. "It would never work: I'm not your type."

"You're everyone's type," says Anduin at the same time Valeera says, "I don't have a type."

They glance at each other, her with trepidation and him with a sly look. He untwists the knot from their hands, immediately retying it again. He says, "Well I can say one thing with confidence, you're not fond of a certain redhead."

Valeera's frown deepens as Anduin stifles a grin, and Jaina asks, "Did Liadrin Sunthread do something to you?"

Valeera's ears flatten, "It was a minor altercation, which I handled--"

"She laid your ass _out_ ," Anduin interjects, tying a bow with a smirk. "Remind me to never get in a ring with her."

Jaina clutches her hands in concern, confused by Anduin's blasé response. "She hurt you?"

"She did _not_ lay me out. I was handling it fine," Valeera sneers.

Anduin purses his lips, "'Handling it' is a strong way to say that you caught her punches with your face."

"She _punched_ you?"

Anduin finally sighs, having perturbed Valeera into a sulky silence. "Miss Sanguinar took it upon herself to spy on our planning session. Apparently Liadrin heard her, thought she was an assassin from the Horde come to kill me, and intervened most fervently on my behalf. She apologized and healed Valeera too, which I found very touching." 

The wheels in Jaina's mind spin, unable to process the knowledge that first: Liadrin defended Anduin Wrynn from a would-be Horde assassin, and, second: she healed Valeera after the fact. She had never taken Liadrin to be a merciful woman, particularly with blood elves who've made unofficial friendships with the Alliance High King.

"I told you it wasn't touching; it was out of necessity," says Valeera lowly, more serious than Jaina has seen her since Varian's death. "She has a reputation to maintain as a paladin. Truth, justice, and the Thalassian way, and so on."

Anduin finishes tying the silk, but appraises his work with dissatisfaction. He unties it and reties it again, leaving their hands pressed together.

"She did it because she had to," Valeera murmurs.

Jaina studies her face, lovely and irritated and mournful, and disjointedly thinks, _Valeera's hands are warm. Sylvanas' will not be._

The sentiment does not disturb her as it might've once, thought she realizes that she has never seen or felt Sylvanas' hands directly. They are always covered by gauntlets, just as the rest of her body is usually blanketed by armor, except for once when she was in the bath and Jaina was making a very conscious effort not to look at her.

"You can keep your opinions, but she seemed quite sorry to have beaten you so badly," says Anduin. "She just expressed it in her own... reserved way."

Valeera turns away from them again, her long ear resting against her left shoulder.

Jaina cannot resist, "Well thank you for being here after such trying times. Count yourself lucky we aren't rehearsing the whole wedding."

"Perhaps you should," Valeera snaps. "And find someone else to stand in for your Warchief."

"There's no need," Anduin replies. "You read the script. The whole thing is spelled out. If I can commend Lady Liadrin on one thing, she's thorough."

"Thoroughly awful," says Valeera.

"She thoroughly whooped your ass," he snickers. He finalizes the Fisherman's Knot again, shifting the ribbon over Jaina's pinky. "Though I was surprised the ceremony included something as romantic as a kiss."

"What?" Jaina's eyes narrow.

The Fisherman's Knot falls away from her hands, but she and Valeera remain firmly rooted in place. Valeera's ears twitch once, as if she wills them not to lower. 

Anduin coils the white ribbon neatly around his palm, his voice steady and reassuring, "The il'amaren in the script. It's an elven kiss of binding. A tradition in Quel'Thalas."

She glanced over the ceremony's paperwork last night before Anya appeared at Proudmoore Keep with the letter, then traded in one Sylvanas-related document for another. Jaina sighs. She should have woken up earlier to read it before her meetings, but she is so tired and sore, and woke doused in her own blood. The subtle ringing in her ears begins again, the anxiety-born tinnitus briefly overpowered by the pressure of Sylvanas' wail. 

Except for their earlier posturing and fighting, they have rarely been close enough to kiss. Jaina still feels the twinge of guilt for her actions in Dalaran, Boralus, and Orgrimmar-- she realizes that she has been cruel to Sylvanas in every location they've ever met except for the Spire-- and wonders if Sylvanas didn't mention the il'amaren for that reason. The kiss between them is just more theatrics, like waving at the crowd or walking arm-in-arm, only on a grander scale.

_But no, that's not quite right either. She protected me when I helped her._ Sylvanas held her close, not just to cover the wedding dress clutched against her chest, but out of actual concern for her well-being. She saw it plainly on her face: her eyebrows drawn up in worry, her teeth gritted. Sylvanas is more expressive after she eats, the permanent barrier around her emotions less intense. Jaina watched her look at the portraits in her childhood home and, try as she might, Sylvanas could not bury her caustic sorrow.

There are family portraits in Proudmoore Keep too. Jaina cannot look on them for any amount of time, not with her father's stern face glaring back and Derek's bright blue eyes long gone. Her mother stares at the painting though; she sometimes gazes upon it late at night, empty handed and contemplative, as if listening for far away voices. Jaina never interrupts her reverie. 

"That photo opportunity will be beneficial for the press," she says lowly.

Valeera smiles, rubbing the pad of her thumb across Jaina's wrist. "What's wrong, Jaina? Nervous about kissing? We could practice if you want."

There is a frantic edge to Valeera's voice that gives the impression that her offers are genuine: aggressive and desperate for a distraction. Jaina releases her hands and says, "You're being more flirtatious than usual, even by your standards. Are you certain you're not upset about something?"

Valeera crosses her arms, turning abruptly to the sound of the throne room doors swinging open. She relaxes her shoulders as Vereesa Windrunner enters the room, her face fierce and drawn, a Stormwind Marshall following behind her.

Before fear strikes through her heart, Jaina thinks, _She looks like Sylvanas. Like their mother._

The Marshall rushes forward with a cursory bow to Anduin, then hands him an open letter. He begins, "My King, forgive my interruption but we received harrowing news--"

Vereesa snaps, "A bomb was detonated in Ironforge this morning."

A chill runs down Jaina's spine, its twin echoed in Vereesa. The aftereffects of Theramore's mana bomb still course in their veins, its residual trauma as obvious as her snowy hair.

Anduin's face darkens, "How many causalities?"

"Fourteen, sir. Eight were civilians," says the Marshall.

Anduin glances at Jaina for the briefest moment, "Who claims this attack?"

_He suspects the Horde_ , she sadly thinks. _Sylvanas wouldn't. She wants the peace._

"Queen-Regent Thaurissan reports it is the work of the Loyalists. There was a protest in the Commons against the peace treaty and the Horde." The Marshall clenches his jaw. "They promised more violence until the Horde is brought to justice. Eyewitnesses say a man ran the bomb to the front steps of the bank before he was intercepted by guards and it detonated."

"Inform the other leaders," Anduin orders as he pockets the white ribbon. "I must go to Ironforge."

Vereesa speaks, mechanical and sharp, "Anduin, I recommend advanced scouts sweep the area with the King's Guard. This could be a trap. I can have my Rangers ready for reconnaissance immediately, with my Arcanists prepped for emergency portals. I also recommend SI:7 gather intelligence by any means necessary."

The bright white flash of Theramore's decimation burns through Jaina's mind and she hears her old laments, the ones she and Vereesa shared: _if only I'd known, if only I'd been more prepared, if only I'd protected Rhonin and Kinndy and Pained_.

"I agree," Anduin says.

"We must inform the Horde." Jaina murmurs, "Sylvanas needs to know. She might be able to help us."

Anduin pauses, then nods. "Tell her what we know. Valeera, with me." The rogue vanishes without hesitation, invisibly trailing at his heels as he strides out of the throne room.

Jaina opens a shimmering blue portal connecting to its permanent base in the Warchief's Suite.

Before she steps through, Vereesa takes Jaina's hand and says, "I'm tripling the security detail for the wedding. I would appreciate if my sister did the same." She swallows, "And I support her decision about Alleria, regardless of what she chooses. Please tell her."

Jaina eyebrows knit together, confused by the second request, but she says, "I will. Is there something wrong with Alleria?"

"No, she's... fine. But she wrote you a letter asking for permission to attend the wedding. She wrote me and Anduin too, along with Sylvanas." She hastily adds, "I want her there, but it's up to you two. It's your wedding."

"Of course she can come," Jaina breathes.

Vereesa squeezes her hand and lowly says, "Yours wasn't the answer she's worried about." She pulls Jaina into a hug-- she can't remember the last time Vereesa initiated contact with her, or with anyone for that matter-- and says, "Please, be safe."

"You too," says Jaina, gently releasing her.

Sylvanas is not expecting her or any of the news she brings, and the Warchief does not appreciate surprises. She steels her face and passes through the glowing portal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the roast of Valeera Sanguinar, a.k.a. Anduin is a Liadrin fanboy.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind, thoughtful comments! We're about 1-2 chapters away from the wedding and I'm pretty happy about it!


	24. Jaina, Lilian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: 1) Torture. 2) As an American, this chapter features some topical conversations regarding Alliance Loyalist protests, but I can promise that this content has been planned for months. This is not a heavy-handed riot metaphor about the civil unrest of June 2020. (It doesn't really fit that narrative anyway, but I felt it needed to be addressed.)
> 
> That said, if you want to support this fanfiction and have my eternal gratitude, donate to #SayHerName, a charity sponsored by the African American Policy Forum run by black mothers who have lost their daughters to police violence: https://aapf.org/supportshn. Black Lives Matter.

The ringing pulses in Jaina's ears as she surveys the silent Warchief's Suite, exhaustion dragging down her body like a millstone around her neck. Her head and heart ache for the people of Ironforge, for the innocents taken too soon. A small piece of her mind understands the Loyalists, though she cannot condone them, for being unwilling to make peace with the Horde, their lifelong enemies, the monsters they were taught to hate. They were _right_ to hate, just as the people of the Horde are right to hate the Alliance.

A signed piece of paper is not enough to change that. They needed to see their soldiers come home. They needed the Horde and Alliance at the same table, sharing resources, depending on one another for survival. They needed common ground, and for the Loyalists and True Horde to stop killing their own people in the name of vengeance, reestablishing a war that should have never existed.

Yet, had it been Garrosh, not Sylvanas, offering the Unification Treaty, Jaina would have killed him in Dalaran. She needs no mana bomb to rend him limb from limb.

_No,_ she thinks sourly. _I could have killed him at the Trial, but I am too weak. I stayed my hand for justice that never came. I am never allowed my anger._

Suddenly, the front door to the stairs swings open and a pale blur speeds toward Jaina. She embraces her magic too slowly, barely summoning an ice dagger and staggering back as a short sword grazes her throat. Delaryn Summermoon looms over her, ghastly and quiet, her face passive, her blade quickly lowered back to her side.

"I am sorry, Warqueen. I thought you were a threat."

Hazily, Jaina thinks, _She looks like Pained, but more delicate. What would Pained have thought of Teldrassil? Would she have burned too?_ Sylvanas' voice echoes in her mind, _"They were told to evacuate. Did you know that?"_

But Pained kissed her one last time in Theramore, her serious, steady face smiling. She never had the chance to defend the World Tree, or to die on the beaches of Dark Shore like Delaryn did.

_She could have killed me just now. I can't even defend myself properly._

She drops her ice dagger and spell, both summoned up too slowly to be useful. Her cheeks burn. "Delaryn," she says, "I need to see Sylvanas immediately. It's an emergency."

"Yes, ma'am," she says softly and turns back to the staircase.

Jaina breathes a sigh of relief that Delaryn offered no arguments or questions; she feels she can trust the Dark Rangers to treat her respectfully, but the former Sentinel is something of a mystery to her. Delaryn guides her through Grommash Hold, seemingly unbothered by the people who watch them pass in the orange-brown corridors. Jaina feels a ping of guilt that she has yet to finish the wards around the Hold, her work hindered by other responsibilities, but largely delayed following their argument over Baine Bloodhoof. She bites the inside of her cheek.

As they approach another Dark Ranger- _Kalira_ , Jaina thinks, _though Taelia is far better at telling them apart._ \- Delaryn whispers something into her ear and she vanishes through the set of oak doors behind her without a word. Jaina catches a glimpse of a meeting room inside, several Horde leaders gathered around a large table. She clenches her jaw at the thought of interrupting them all, or having to publicly explain what happened in Ironforge; then beg for what she needed from the Horde, salvo after salvo of questions buffeting her. Her eyelids and shoulders feel so heavy.

But Sylvanas emerges quickly, only Kalira in her wake, her brow furrowed. She spares a brief glance of distaste at Delaryn, then looks Jaina up and down, searching for any sign of injury.

"What happened?" she asks.

Lowering her voice, Jaina says, "Alliance Loyalists bombed the Bank of Ironforge after a protest against the peace. There were 14 confirmed casualties, 8 were civilians. Anduin and I received the news less than ten minutes ago. The Silver Covenant is sweeping the area for any signs of additional explosives, and SI:7 is gathering intelligence. Your people need to be on alert."

Sylvanas' face darkens, her lips pressed into a thin line, cool and detached, no irrational anger in sight. "Anya," she says.

The Dark Ranger appears from nothing at her side and Jaina swallows a yelp of surprise. She chides herself; she must learn to treat Anya's abilities like Valeera's: she could be any where at any time, watching and listening. Jaina finds the thought strangely comforting, warm in her chest. It jars her as she stands surrounded by Sylvanas and three of her Rangers that she is not afraid.

"Go to Ironforge, and assist the SI:7 investigation." Sylvanas touches Anya's elbow, "Root out the Loyalists, but do nothing without Alliance permission. I will send Lilian shortly."

"Yes, Dark Lady," Anya replies, vanishing again.

Jaina does not question how Sylvanas can so easily order one of the Horde to a major Alliance city, but she isn't foolish enough to believe that Orgrimmar isn't equally accessible for Alliance spies. Perhaps the day will come when they no longer need to hide from one another. She blinks slowly, her headache growing in magnitude, sensitive to even the lowest light, the tremors before an earthquake. 

"I have other things to discuss with you when you have the time," says Jaina. "They are also pressing."

Sylvanas' eyes return to Jaina, a hint of reluctance in them. "We were meeting," she says, her face turned to the door. "I need to tell them."

"Would it lend more or less credence if I broke the news?" Jaina asks, clearing her throat. It itches the longer she talks, another symptom of her sleepless nights.

"There would be no difference," says Sylvanas. "You don't have to if you don't want to. They will listen to what I tell them." She coolly adds, "But if you find me so untrustworthy that you wish to witness my words, then so be it."

Jaina levels her with a beleaguered look, her dark circles so prevalent she can feel their weight. "You know what? I'm coming in just because you said that."

"Spiteful," says Sylvanas, extending her arm. Jaina takes it with a sigh. 

They leave Delaryn and Kalira in the hallway, reemerging into the meeting room arm-in-arm. They pass a dozen pairs of eyes as they cross beside the table, Sylvanas as serious as ever and Jaina doing her best to stand tall and proud. She notes the surprise in most of their faces when they see her, the fear in some, and a small wave of pleasure floods her body. Even with Rommath and Thalyssra in the room, Jaina could put up a devastating, bloody fight on her own.

Sylvanas pulls back a chair at the head of the table and guides Jaina toward it. She sits gracefully, obviously taking the Warchief's own seat, and Sylvanas hovers near her left side. She says, "The Lord Admiral brings news from the Alliance. Ironforge was bombed by Loyalists."

The ripple of movement travels through the table as Sylvanas speaks, her hands clasped behind her back, standing at military ease. She repeats what Jaina told her nearly verbatim, adding that she sent an advanced scout to assist in the reconnaissance efforts. She keeps nothing from them, to Jaina's surprise.

Her blue eyes scan the table, noting that both Thalyssra and Lor'themar refuse to make eye contact with her: her with a tired, pained expression, and him with overt revulsion. She finds Thalyssra's response puzzling, perhaps due to Jaina's closeness with Vereesa, who she apparently took some issue with, but Lor'themar and the rest of the blood elves she expected. Liadrin locks eyes with her with no issue at all, a small sneer beginning to tug at her lips, her harsh face made more brutal by the flickering torchlight.

Jaina also notes that the orcs in the room, including Saurfang and Geya'rah, all give her small nods, likely following Thrall's lead, and that Gallywix's chief engineer, Gazlowe, appears to be the only goblin at the crowded table. There are several trolls, each face painted with more vitriol than the last. For all the sentimentality and friendship Thrall displays toward Jaina, Talanji looks like she could suck the marrow from her bones.

How many troll bodies did Jaina leave behind in the Battle of Dazar'alor? How many Zandalari sailors did she drown in a watery grave?

"How do we know this isn't one of the Alliance's tricks?" asks Talanji. Jaina feels a knot in her stomach, hot and furious at the implication that she lied, but she wills herself not to react.

"Mind your tone," Sylvanas snaps, the high whine of the banshee pierces her voice. Jaina's ears ring with the memory of her wail. "Do not be foolish, Talanji. Any deception is a violation of the treaty and would rekindle the war." Sylvanas rests a gauntlet on the back of Jaina's chair, heavy and certain.

"There will be no Horde military presence in Ironforge, do you understand? Medics, healers, and civilians only."

"And who will protect our people?" asks Saurfang.

"The High King and Silver Covenant." Sylvanas harbors no room for argument, her red eyes narrowed in anger. "I shall not incite a riot by arriving with weapons and force. All interactions will be entirely altruistic in nature."

She purses her lips, "Lilian, Talanji, Thrall, remain. The rest of you are dismissed, and we will reconvene this discussion at a later date." Jaina watches as the throng recedes, filing out in relative silence, and feels a touch of gratitude that Sylvanas didn't ask her to speak.

A small Forsaken woman with unkempt brown hair sits low in her seat, her arms crossed. Lilian Voss' face is pretty-- young and shrewd and covered in deep scars from weapons Jaina could barely imagine-- but her posture speaks of minor rebellion. She eyes Sylvanas with mostly-concealed anger, the fiery look very familiar to Jaina, but she listens raptly. Sylvanas shows no tension during their exchange, no more than her ever-present scowling, but Jaina gets the distinct impression that they have had words before. She's surprised Sylvanas allowed her this peek behind the Horde's curtain, and finds a small amount of joy in the fact that its leaders display the same levels of internal dysfunction that the Alliance has.

"Lilian," says Sylvanas flatly. "Gather intelligence. Assist SI:7. Share any information you find. The Loyalists are a threat to the Horde and Alliance both. I expect a report before dusk."

Lilian says nothing but vanishes in absolute silence, a belligerent counterpoint to Anya's faithful obedience. Sylvanas' lips tighten.

"Thrall, Talanji, as the peers of Ironforge's leadership, I expect your utmost cooperation. Write your peers, offer any aid they require. Do nothing unless explicitly asked and, if you are invited to Ironforge, you and your contingent will be under the Alliance's protection. No weapons, no armor." 

Thrall says, "We will show them that the Horde is honorable."

"Who reported this bombing to the High King?" Talanji asks, her voice as hard as tempered steel.

This time Jaina responds, "The letter came from Queen-Regent Moira Thaurissan, your peer."

"One of my _three_ peers," Talanji corrects.

"I can inform the Council of Three Hammers that you will not be able to meet with all of them," Jaina sneers, "if you feel intimidated."

Talanji's teeth are bared and she half-rises in her chair. Suddenly, a cool metal weight rests against Jaina's shoulder, Sylvanas' gauntlet, and red eyes stare down at her calmly. "Talanji is not intimidated by anyone," says Sylvanas. The troll queen lowers back down with a huff, her fingers massaging her forehead.

Jaina turns her eyes away, ashamed for lashing out so immaturely.

"I will speak to the Queen-Regent and provide what she needs," Talanji says. "The other two are too busy arguing to have any sense at all."

"Very well," Sylvanas says. "You're both dismissed."

As Talanji and Thrall rise to leave, the queen locks eyes with Jaina and says, "Regardless of your old friendships and new allegiance with the Horde, I am not afraid of you, Jaina Proudmoore. The children of the loa do not forget."

Jaina embraces her magic, a bright line of whitehot power traces up her spine, snarling for violence. Sylvanas' hand tightens on her shoulder, a bruising pressure so intense that Jaina slides out from beneath it with a quiet gasp and releases her spell. As soon as Sylvanas realizes what she did her face contorts, the fire of her rage split between herself and Talanji. Thrall positions himself in front of Talanji, eyes wide as they dart between Jaina and the Warchief.

She empties herself of her anger, her magic, and swallows thickly. She is so very tired, but cannot excuse her behavior. People could die because of her short temper.

Jaina rises from her chair, one hand on Sylvanas' forearm, and clearly says, "I am sorry for what I said to you a moment ago, Talanji. That was untrue and unbecoming of a woman of my station. I see you have no fear in you, and I would not expect you or the Zandalari to forget the horrors of this war. Thank you for helping the people of Ironforge."

_This is your lot in life, Jaina Proudmoore_ , she drowsily thinks _. Ever the diffuser of tense situations._

Talanji watches her suspiciously, but nods tersely and leaves without further comment. Thrall exhales and shakes his head. She cannot help but smile at her old friend: at least he understands her reasoning, her permanent need to prostrate herself before her unforgiving enemies for peace. He would do the same.

"Warchief," he nods a farewell to Sylvanas. He dips his head to Jaina, a tiny grin between his tusks, "Warqueen."

When the door closes behind them Jaina sighs again, feeling her dizziness return in full force. Her shoulder feels tender where Sylvanas clutched it.

"You didn't have to apologize to her. She disrespected you," Sylvanas snarls. "She threatened-"

"It's nothing. I did not feel threatened. I started it, and had to finish it." Jaina says. She clears her throat again. "I should not have said what I said."

"I will have words with her," Sylvanas seethes. She stalks toward the door as if she plans to chase Talanji through the halls.

"Please don't," says Jaina wearily. "Please, let it rest."

Sylvanas' eyes roam her face, contemplative and steel-sharp. Jaina can still see that thread of vulnerability and regret she saw last night at the Spire, the tilt of her ears and hunch of her archer's shoulders. The confidence and arrogance are gone for now, replaced by unspoken, hard-won respect and the questioning look of a woman who would never have apologized in the same situation. There is fury in the corner of her lips and bitter confusion behind the glow of bright red eyes, but she quietly says, "This is not your sword to fall on, Jaina."

"But it is one less sword in play," says Jaina. "The people of Ironforge cannot afford my pettiness."

Sylvanas lowers her gaze to Jaina's right arm, and her ears lower, "I'm sorry that I hurt your shoulder."

"It was an accident. If I hadn't said anything in the first place, you wouldn't have responded that way."

Sylvanas reapproaches her, head tilted. "Somehow I've given you yet another sword. If you keep up this blame-taking, there will be no sharp edges left in Orgrimmar."

"And we'll be all the safer for it." Jaina sits back down, her eyes closed. 

Sylvanas casts a shadow across her, dark and peaceful, a reprieve from the flickering torchlight, as she says, "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Jaina coughs lightly, eyebrows raised in surprise. The question catches her off-guard. "Yes, a few hours."

"You look tired."

"Thanks," Jaina frowns.

Sylvanas ignores her. "You need to sleep."

"It's a busy week. I don't exactly have time for a catnap."

"No one will come looking for you in Orgrimmar."

"A month ago I would have taken that as a threat," Jaina smiles wryly.

Sylvanas does not return her smile, but the harsh symmetry of her face loosens into a softer expression. "It's no threat. Come," Sylvanas says after a long pause, "we need to speak either way."

She holds out her hand, which Jaina reluctantly accepts, and helps her to her feet. Her arm slides through Sylvanas' again, assuming her normal position at her right side as they travel through Grommash Hold. Delaryn and Kalira wait for them outside, silently falling in line as they walk.

Sylvanas opens the door to the cold Warchief's Suite, ushering Jaina inside. She lights both fireplaces with silent efficiency, not speaking as Jaina sits on the grey sofa. When she's finished with her task, Sylvanas rises up, her back straight and proud, both hands clasped behind her back. She speaks as if addressing her soldiers.

"You can do no more for Ironforge now. I have sent my best to support the King." She raises her chin haughtily, "Understand that your health is a reflection of this peace and my treatment of you. While you are running your body ragged, I will be the one blamed for overtaxing the Lord Admiral, or, as you so put it not so long ago, 'Not treating my woman right.'"

Jaina flushes having her words thrown back in her face. She shouldn't have said that either.

"We have to keep up appearances. Neither one of us can afford to lash out at our people, and with today's stress and tomorrow's excitement I can effectively guarantee you will fall into your normal patterns and not sleep an hour tonight. On top of your chronic insomnia, you were injured yesterday and, as one of the living, need time to recover." Sylvanas' voice is dull and matter-of-fact, "You should sleep now, while no one will disturb you."

Something in her tone has shifted from the cruel, feral creature that pinned her in the study, hissing, _"You're starving to death. Stop demanding of the dead, and feed the living first."_ This Sylvanas is logical and frigid, a general who needs her cavalry to be rested before they can properly lead the charge.

Jaina slouches against the decorative pillows. "You can't order me to sleep, Sylvanas."

"It's not an order, merely a recommendation." She gestures to the snowflake portal, "You can leave whenever you wish, but I suspect you will find the Alliance demands more of your energy than the Horde."

Jaina scoffs, "Considering I am the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras and the Alliance's First Peer, I think that makes sense."

"That does not prove what I said wrong," says Sylvanas.

Jaina closes her eyes. Her head pounds and her shoulder aches, and she's slept in the large bed once before. It's spacious and heavy, and the fireplace fills the room with just enough warmth to fend off the winter chill, but not enough to keep her from burrowing beneath the comforter. She slept better in Orgrimmar than she anticipated.

"Are you worried my lack of sleep will reflect poorly on you?"

Sylvanas' brow furrows. "Yes. You worry about my hunger, I worry about your sleep. _And_ your hunger, for that matter."

"It's hardly the same."

"It is _exactly_ the same."

"I'm not going to kill someone if I don't get enough sleep," Jaina spits. She cannot help the fray in her voice: the comparison is an insult.

Sylvanas' neck muscles tense but she does not respond to her anger. She quietly asks, "Are you sure about that? You forget I can smell your magic when you summon it."

The fire pops and crackles, woodsmoke filling the air around them. Jaina turns her eyes to the burning logs, anything to keep from Sylvanas' penetrating gaze. For once she feels she does not have control, does not have the upper hand or the right to demand. Jaina is exhausted and out-of-line, and Sylvanas has maintained her head.

"Are you really going to put your foot down about this?" Jaina murmurs.

"Yes."

She rises from the sofa and slowly makes her way to the bedroom, ignoring how Sylvanas' ears perk up in victory, and takes a seat on the side of the bed nearest the bedside table and lamp. She unbuckles her pauldron, gauntlet, and cloak, and unlaces her boots, laying them on the floor. Her day-to-day armor is far from comfortable but the weariness of her body makes it easier to forget.

"Wake me in an hour."

"No, I will wake you when I return. I have a busy morning."

"Two hours," barters Jaina. The sheets are cool against her skin; she can feel her resolve slipping now that she's reclining.

"Don't be a toddler. I will wake you when I come back. If you wish to set an alarm, then do so and leave when it suits you. Otherwise, sleep until I wake you."

Jaina folds her arms petulantly, watching as Sylvanas quietly closes the door, her ears still perked through her burgundy hood. At least she had the decency to hide a condescending smile.

The room is peaceful and dim, and Jaina does not set an alarm. She collapses easily against the soft pillows, listening to the steady crackle of the fireplace, and when sleep takes her she does not dream at all.

* * *

Lilian Voss pauses as the Ironforge guard passes in front of her, her movements silent and watchful. His strides are loud, clunky, a dwarf on a mission, and he doesn't feel her invisible presence beside him, nothing more than a faint disruption in the air. She's careful not to wear perfumes or lotions or shampoos whose scent could betray her position, and minds her own footfalls with practiced intensity.

The Great Forge is crowded, full of the frightened masses begging for information on the dead, waiting for the High King and Queen-Regent to make their official statements. Lilian lurks behind them, eyes scanning the myriad faces until she settles on a cloaked human man with no fear in his eyes, uncharacteristically still. Behind him, she sees the shimmering outline of Valeera Sanguinar holding a finger to her lips. She points across his head to a dilapidated balcony above a tailor's shop.

On the balcony sits Anya Eversong, also invisible, looking down on them patiently.

_Ah, they beat me to the punch. Found a Loyalist and his hideout._

She makes her way to the tailor's shop- Valeera can tail the man herself- and slips inside. The coy old gnome behind the counter, Harlen Grimshot, is a Horde spy, paid for his information and discretion. She assumes SI:7 is also using him to gather details on the Loyalists and to gain their trust, rooting them out from the inside. She can't blame him for playing both sides: were she not so loyal to the Forsaken she might do the same, at least before the peace treaty was signed.

Lilian slinks upstairs, still invisible, and finds the door to one of two small apartments upstairs unlocked. She cracks the door to the unlocked room, pleased to find the sharp point of a nocked arrow against her nose.

"Anya," Lilian says.

"Lilian," Anya replies, returning her arrow to her quiver. She opens the door and walks back to her perch on the balcony.

A thread of tension runs in the silence between them, the ever-present disagreement of Lilian versus Sylvanas, her Rangers ever-loyal and Lilian ever-criticized for being the only one left who dared speak out against the Banshee Queen's brutality. She would have been smitten with a woman like Anya in another life: aloof, unimpressed, distant, at least on the surface. A mystery to unravel. She is a superlative tracker and investigator, and would make an excellent addition to the Uncrowned, though she would never accept the offer. Allegiances are tricky things.

She thinks of Thomas Zelling this morning, quaking and quivering and nearly riddled with bullets in the dreary Boralus rain, all to sate Sylvanas' desire to see him punished. The undead man had been banished from his old family and his new family, and only Lilian seemed to care at all what became of him.

_How easily Sylvanas forsakes her Forsaken when they rightfully disobey. Thomas deserves better than she will ever give him, and no amount of gratitude for her val'kyr can change that,_ she thinks. _Her obsession with control is exhausting._

She glances around the shabby apartment, hardly more than a single bedroom bunkhouse, and pushes the sensation of Calia Menethil's hovering warmth from her mind. _What a dreadful pair they would make if they could only bear each other's company._ She smiles, and the stitches around her jaw constrict.

"Grimshot confirmed the man is a Loyalist. He attended the protest this morning, and left before the bomb detonated. The man who ran the bomb appears to be a kaldorei refugee, though his identity remains unknown." Anya nods to a stack of letters on the rickety table. "He has correspondence with other extremists. This bombing will be the first of many, and I believe they will be worse. This morning's attack was partially foiled by the guards."

Lilian flips through the letters, all written in heavy-handed, obvious code. These people did not know what they were doing. She feels a hot sting of shame that such a disorganized group of anti-peace extremists could have even gotten this far with the combined might of the Horde and Alliance working against them. 

Anya glances out the window past the balcony to the noisy streets below. "He's coming back. Sanguinar's tailing." She turns her bright red eyes to Lilian, mutual invisibility pointless at this range, and asks, "She'll lead this?"

"Yes. Her turf, her party."

"She's not even Alliance."

"She's far closer than either of us," says Lilian. Valeera is a ranking member of the Council of Shadows and, as far as the Uncrowned are concerned, could technically pull rank on Lilian, not that she'd do something so passé. "She's a real weapon."

Anya hums, her face emotionless.

Lilian once saw a moth outside her window that was pink and yellow and fuzzy, fluttering around and waving its bristly antennae like a friend across the street. She set her elbows on the windowsill and watched with a contended smile as it crawled around, exploring the stones of the Scarlet Monastery. She liked the moths and how they tapped against the glass late at night when she was reading, little bugs there to keep her company in the dark. But this moth was so beautiful, and Lilian liked beautiful things because she so rarely saw them up close.

Her bedroom door swung open with a bang, and her father stood between two of his knights, powerful men with large muscles and hard, unhappy faces.

"You are late for training," High Priest Voss intoned, his baritone like gravel in her ears. "Why?"

She could not lie to father; he would beat her for sinning. "I was watching a moth," she whispered.

Her father scoffed and the guards sprang forward, one flinging wide her window and the other caging the moth in his massive fingers. She shook between them, a waifish girl of seven, her brown eyes wide and tearful.

"Hold out your hands, Lilian."

She obeyed, fingers twitching. The knight pressed the poor moth between her hands, its paper-thin wings already bent beyond repair.

"Kill it," said her father.

She obeyed. The warmth and wetness spread across the lines of her palms, the moth's soft fur like velvet, like a friend.

"You are the greatest weapon against the Scourge," he told her. "Behave like it."

An old anger surges in her chest, an echoing cavern where her heart used to beat. Lilian savors this rage and stores it in her fingertips and the stitches on her cheeks; she stores it in her memory of the pretty pink and yellow moth. Her father gave her this anger, and she used it to end his life, as simple as crushing an insect. She melts into the shadows near the kitchen cabinets, grateful that Anya has disappeared in the curtains, slowly closing the balcony door.

The front door creaks open and the man steps inside, removing his dark cloak. Before he can hang it on the coat rack inside Valeera pounces on him, kicking in the back of his knees. He hits the ground with a muffled thud and she jumps on his back, smashing his face into the floorboards with fervor, the sound like ripe fruit on pavement.

"Ladies," she announces, spinning in a circle. "Welcome to Ironforge. So good to have you both here."

Beside her boots, the man gurgles and shifts his weight. She kicks him in the head, annoyed, and he goes completely limp.

"How are your days going so far?" she asks casually. "Mine's been better."

When neither of them answer her, Valeera crosses her arms, bored again. She turns her bright green eyes to Lilian, sauntering back to the kitchen with her sweetest smile. She says, "Would you like to find something more fun to do later, Lilian? I have a few ideas, but it'll take both of us."

Lilian smiles. Valeera's a gorgeous woman and under different circumstances she wouldn't hesitate to accept such a delectable offer, even after her eventful morning. But Lilian doesn't entangle herself with other Rogues, particularly the Uncrowned. Business and pleasure are two distinct entities in her mind, perhaps more easily fractured after her training in the Scarlet Monastery. While she grew up equating sex with shame, undeath has given her a new set of rules that she prefers far more. The only thing stopping her from taking what she wants is herself and, suddenly, in death she'd become quite the hot commodity among the women of the Horde. She rather enjoyed that too.

"Trying that game again?" Lilian asks. "I'm afraid the answer is still no, and you know why."

Valeera groans. "Because 'you don't shit where you eat'? How crass, Lilian." She pouts and turns to Anya, "What about you, Ranger-Captain? You can bring your new Kul Tiran puppy dog if you're a packaged deal or something."

Anya squints. "I was standing right here when Lilian told you no. My answer is the same. Stop asking." Lilian's not certain she's ever seen the Dark Ranger upset before, however comically. Her ears sit low against her hood.

Valeera rolls her eyes. "Don't be obtuse. I literally said you could bring Taelia."

"We're not a bundled set for your convenience," Anya snaps.

"You sound like Tess and Lorna."

"We're not even dating."

"Well whose fault is that, Anya?"

"Taelia Fordragon?" Lilian interrupts them. The human woman is a fine specimen, but very much alive and very much Alliance. She's not certain how she and Anya Eversong would work, if only because she'd never considered Anya a particularly sexual creature. Not after her wife died.

"It's like they're joined at the hip," says Valeera, heaving as she props the man up into a chair.

Anya shreds bedsheets with her shortsword, scowling all the while. "We are not."

"So she's fair game?" Valeera swipes a torn pillowcase from the bed and viciously shoves it into the unconscious man's mouth.

Anya's face darkens, but she says nothing as she binds the man's hands and feet to the chair.

Valeera smirks, "That's what I thought. But don't worry yourself, kitten. I think she only has eyes for you."

Anya bristles at the pet name but tolerates the prodding, perhaps because Valeera's reassurances count for something in her mind. Lilian might feel reassured by those words, were there some woman for whom she pined. She didn't know her preferences before she died, twenty-three and lovely and untouched by another's hands. She didn't know how it felt to kiss a woman's lips: comforting and cloying and hungry; whether they be undead or living, it matters little to her. A Forsaken woman with Lilian's head between her legs doesn't come any less beautifully than a living one.

_What a sweet feeling._

The denial of that pleasure was one of the crueler things her father did to her and, though Lilian rebels against Sylvanas Windrunner in her little ways, she owes her a great debt for giving her these freedoms, their later clashes in ideology aside. She likes being crass and coarse, and grinning while she slinks away from the rules, invisible and free, an undead spitfire. Lilian is a rogue now, and a rough woman besides, but she is no fool. She can bide her time with Sylvanas, and use her knowledge of Zelling's whereabouts like a knife, striking when it hurts the most.

_And Calia Menethil, a knife of a different sort._

Lilian became, quite suddenly, in high demand among the Forsaken, both as a leader and as a lover, another honor she never expected to achieve. She didn't court women long-term and never claimed to, but they fell into her bed regardless, and wouldn't refuse a willing party. Parts of her undeath made her significantly happier than she was in life; she relishes the nature of desire and the freedom it gives her. Sex makes her body feel good, not surviving, not suffering, a long overdue reclamation to call her own.

Before she was raised by the val'kyr there was only the confusion of Sally Whitemane with her sex and sin, elegant and cold and powerful. She never once looked at Lilian and Lilian wouldn't have understood it if she had, but there was a physical craving when she admired her that was shortly and fiercely replaced by a yearning for vengeance. Sally died like the other Crusaders, all monstrous people who swore monstrous oaths to the Light.

Her mind returns to Calia Menethil. She would relish the opportunity to torment her, though she hadn't originally set out to do so. Lilian could work within the confines of totalitarianism if it means seeing shock on that frigid, porcelain face again. Only an arrogant fool would think Lilian had time to beg, to offer satiating supplication at the altar of her self-hatred. No, she had no desire to play the Light's favorite game: guilt and gallows. 

Valeera sighs deeply, approaching the groggy man as he flexes against his bindings. "May I?" 

Lilian leans against the table and waves a hand. "Be my guest. It's your investigation."

She kneels between the man's legs, gently positioning her hands on each of his knees. She taps his cheek, bidding him awake. From the door, Anya rolls her eyes. She's obviously never seen Valeera work before.

"Sweet, brave boy," Valeera draws out her words, slow and sticky as honey. "I can protect you. I can grant you immunity from the High King himself." She brushes sweaty hair behind his ear, "But you need to tell me everything you know about this plot. This is the only chance you'll have to avoid a very unpleasant morning. My friends are not so gentle."

Anya and Lilian stare at him, unmoving and unemotional, their dead eyes like stars in the night sky. Valeera waits until he stills, then lowers the gag from his mouth. 

He heaves, "I'm not telling you anything, Horde _cunt._ " He rears back and before he can spit in her face, she jams the shredded pillowcase back into his mouth.

"Okie dokie." Valeera rises to her feet. She draws her dagger as she walks behind the thrashing man and, in one nonchalant swipe, slices off his right pinkie.

He howls in agony, chest straining, and she says, "I'm not even with the Horde. Read the room."

"You're a sin'dorei who wears a lot of red. It's an understandable mistake," Anya mutters over the sound of his moaning.

Valeera tosses the finger beneath the unmade bed and shrugs, "I look good in red."

Valeera's coming in a touch hard with maiming their target so early in the interrogation process, but Lilian supposes a heavy hand is sometimes necessary and she isn't about to stop her. They may both be Uncrowned, but this venture is for the Alliance, and she dares not undermine her while she works. Valeera has achieved her most legendary kills on those who underestimated her.

On some level she enjoys the show: this is what she knows best, a violent, ruthless efficiency that begets incredible results. She just has to sit back and let Valeera work, not unlike her early morning visit with Calia Menethil. The corner of her lips turn up as the man howls, blood staining his white bindings.

_What a day, and it's not yet 10 o'clock._

She had to change out of her rain-drenched armor before the Horde Council meeting, showering and debating how to handle Thomas Zelling's current predicament. She left him at her small house outside of Ravenholt despite his protests to meet with his family again in Boralus. They wouldn't have him, no matter how desperately he tried. The Forsaken are his family now.

Time passes and Valeera carves the man apart, each stroke of her dagger an answer for questions in their dossiers. He gives up four other names, one of which is wasted on Grimshot, two hideout locations, and the next Loyalist target: Boralus, a strike against the traitorous Lord Admiral. He couldn't explain who funded the operation, or who lead it, or why Ironforge was bombed first, but Lilian didn't expect to gather that sort of evidence today. They would build a web of plots, half Loyalists, half True Horde, and crush it in their hands like a gushing spider until only peace remains. That slashed-skin violence is something Lilian understands.

The man blacks out, his bristly chin pressing against his chest, brown with the sheen of his own gore. Valeera stands beside him, one bloody hand on her hip. "You know I'm surprised he didn't mention the wedding. I suppose they're not organized enough to pull off two bombings on back-to-back days." She turns to Lilian, "Do you have anything else? I'm done here."

"No, you were very thorough. Good work."

"Oh, thank you," Valeera coos. She slices the man's throat, holding his head still as he gurgles. "You did an excellent job sitting there just looking _so_ intimidating. You too, Anya." 

"Mmhmm," Anya does not look at the dead man. It takes a different sort of stomach to kill off the battlefield. 

"Speaking of, what are you both wearing to the wedding? I'm thinking white."

"Valeera," says Anya lowly, and Lilian snickers. 

She releases the Loyalist and lightly kicks at Anya with her leather boot. "I'm joking. It's a joke. I'm obviously wearing red."

Lilian stands from the chair, collecting the letters into a pile. She says, "I'll be wearing a navy suit. Hair up."

Valeera gasps, "Incredible. With your cheekbones? Radiant." She turns Lilian by the shoulders, facing her toward the balcony. "Anya, imagine. Lilian in a pantsuit."

"Radiant," repeats Anya flatly.

"Thank you," says Lilian. She feels Valeera's chin resting atop her left shoulder. "I'm pleased with the cut of it. What are you wearing, Anya?"

The Ranger rises from her place nearest the balcony. "A black dress."

"Classy," says Lilian.

"You really can't go wrong," Valeera agrees, releasing Lilian from her grasp to wipe down her gory armor.

"I'll send you copies of these for SI:7," Lillian waves the stack of letters.

Valeera dabs at the blood on her face, checking her complexion in a warped mirror beside the bed. "Sounds great."

Anya glances between them, unused to their unspoken trust, but Lilian has known for years that the Horde and Alliance could function coherently. The Unification Treatise simply mandated on a larger scale what the Uncrowned had achieved for decades.

The three of them file downstairs, no longer bothering to mask the sound of their footsteps, and Lilian tosses a gold pouch on Grimshot's tailoring counter. "Sorry about the mess," she says. He nods, scooping up the coin without concern or comment. Just before Anya opens the front door, the three women blink out of existence simultaneously.

"See you tomorrow, ladies," says Valeera. "Save me a dance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna need to write a 100k of this trio torturing people, but as a sitcom with drop-in guests.


	25. Tyrande, Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever get so mad that you eclipse the fucking sun?

At high noon, the red peaks of Thunder Bluff rip through the landscape like bones through flesh. Tyrande sways atop Ash'alah, her inky eyes fixed straight ahead, unconcerned with the procession behind her. The tauren warriors dutifully bear Maiev's litter, so she spares them, their entire lost race allied with traitors, treeburners, and the murderers of her people. They carry the blood of the Earth Mother in their veins, their goddess weak and mute, cowardly before Teldrassil's ashes.

Silent in the face of the banshee's wail.

"I have something I must tell you, High Priestess," Baine Bloodhoof says in his deep, rock-chasm voice. His muscles shift beneath a heavy winter cloak, breath fogging before his face. She tilts her head toward him; she can smell his fear like rotten fruit.

Then she feels them: her kaldorei.

A chorus of thousands of lives uprooted and replanted, a vibrating body of energy and loss. She can feel her people, closer to the stars than ever, arms outstretched atop the rusty mesas. They linger, crowded as cattle, stifled as the Horde's guests, shivering and homeless. She feels a pressure build along her spine, tingling the base of her neck, a searing pull that draws her upward toward the moon, now absent beneath the sun's bright, suppressing rays.

_They live._

The sky darkens; a shadow blankets the landscape. This is Elune's power: a surge, an overpressure, a gift Tyrande didn't know she had, born of relief and rage and ritual. The sun eclipses her strength, but her goddess eclipses the sun.

Her heart quakes. The paradoxical heat of the ever-cold moon streaks across her skin, prickling raw energy coursing in her blood. The fury pulses around her, whipping her braid in the frostbitten wind. There is no joy in this small consolation of kaldorei-- they are simply a reminder of the lives needlessly lost, of homes needlessly burned-- and Bloodhoof staggers backwards from the force she exudes, an invisible wave rippling across the dry-grass field. 

Baine's retinue lunges forward against the wall of energy, ready to strike, but he holds up his hand, grimacing. Elune's might rages around them, their hooves slipping in the sleet. They clutch at their skin as it blisters beneath their fur, doubled over in the agony she exudes, the gravity of her power bending low their spines. She tastes volcanic ash and silver chains in her mouth.

"Tyrande," he heaves. " _Please_."

Ash'alah hisses beneath her, her striped fur trembling as her legs buckle. Tyrande steps away from her saber cat, arms loose at her sides, weaponless and still. She stares emptily at Thunder Bluff as the cold wind tears at her dress, and watches the wisps of grey campfire smoke spiraling upward, small mockeries of their savaged home.

Elune's light burns through her as she gazes at her people, stolen from their lands. It circles around the travelers beneath the mesa, a sweeping, pressing vacuum, and she welcomes it fully. It matters not how many of her children survived, or how many were spared by the Horde. Elune forgets no transgressions; she numbers only the dead. 

Her life magic grows unchecked and wild in the tauren, their hearts pounding, eyes wide, minds racing; they quiver with her excess, the reverberating elemental energy threatens to rupture their hearts and arteries. She feels the crescendo of her strength, and relishes its weight.

Behind her the pallet-bearers half-lower, half-drop Maiev to the cold earth as they lurch, but she drags herself forward one-handed. The stitches of her left hand rupture and blood pools in her palm, coating her chest in carmine. Maiev is in anguish, Priestshood and pressure in her veins, but she reaches out for Tyrande like a lover, like a lifeline.

She shouts, "Tyrande, _enough_!"

Tyrande inhales. The power converges in her like a collapsing star, dissipating as quickly as it came. It coils like burnt roots in her chest, unafraid and dead, and the plains are silent but for the sound of their gulping breaths. The black moon over Thunder Bluff remains.

"We tried, Tyrande," Baine says. "We tried to save as many as we could." His massive hands shake in pain as his eyes turn fearfully to the sky. Baine is a soft man like Malfurion, like Anduin, one who could save only pieces of her scattered people. Tyrande sloughs off their weakness. They lack the fortitude to give Sylvanas what is due; they cannot dole out her justice.

Tyrande opens her heart to the dark sky, the eclipse looming over Thunder Bluff; she accepts the honed wrath of her goddess-- it feels like the ritual, like the first time Tyrande sunk into the depths, like when the moon is full-- and the Night Warrior knows what she must do. Elune ordains it.

* * *

Sylvanas clutches Alleria's letter in her hand, and peruses the clipped contents with a look of disdain. When it came to inter-family communications, her elder sister never used two words if one would do. But set her on a pedestal and let her demonstrate her oratory skills to the public and she speaks with the grace of a poet, or a bard, or a commanding officer. She learned diplomacy from their father, though she had little opportunity to test her skills beyond the Dark Portal. Sylvanas supposes that trend will likely continue for Alleria since she refuses to sign the Unification Treatise.

_Another slight_ , Sylvanas dourly thinks.

The Alliance also has Alleria's refusal to deal with, though Anduin would forgive next to anything of his leadership so long as they apologized. Sylvanas does not share this disillusionment: there would be consequences for any of the Horde's leadership if they refused her peace, up to and including exile. She would have no weak links in her chain, not when the cost of it shattering is Azeroth itself.

The letter reads:

_Sylvanas,_

_I wish to attend your wedding. Letters requesting permission have also been sent to Anduin, Vereesa, and Jaina. I suspect they will approve._

Sylvanas chews the inside of her cheek, leaning on the armrest of the grey sofa in the Warchief's Suite. She should have expected Alleria to want the best of both worlds: not signing her Void elves to the treaty but still attending all the major functions as an honored guest. _But then_ , she recalls, _Alleria was never fond of social gatherings for all of her charisma. She preferred hiding away in the forest or the Spire, not flitting about at parties._ They all did. Sylvanas frowns.

_Shandris Feathermoon has offered to let me accompany her._

Sylvanas reads this sentence, then sets the letter down. She picks it back up and reads it again, still utterly confused by her sister's nonchalance. Turalyon is not mentioned once, nor is her son, Arator, so perhaps neither of them plans to attend the wedding. She scowls at their arrogance. She'd hoped at least her nephew would show his face: as a half-elf, he must be fully grown now, and Sylvanas had yet to see him up close. 

But Shandris Feathermoon seems an intentional choice, not simply the first member of the Alliance who extended her invitation to Alleria. Sylvanas has not forgotten that Shandris arrived in Dalaran via void portal; her sister is in Kalimdor, lurking about with the refugees of Lor'danel. Sylvanas wonders if the supply routes to northern Kalimdor are as sparse as her reports imply. If the Horde struggles to trade in that region, then the Alliance must starve twice over. Darkshore is a wasteland.

Undoubtedly, Alleria has seen firsthand what Sylvanas did to Teldrassil, a useless cruelty, regardless of Bloodhoof's attempt to mitigate it. Guilt roils in her gut courtesy of the owl she ate last night, and she stares out the window for a long time, holding her forehead in one hand and Alleria's letter in the other. 

_I will bear you no grudge, blame, or hostility if you refuse, as that is your prerogative, but I would like to see you again. I await your response._

_-Alleria_

Surprise and suspicion briefly flood her mind, more from Alleria's admission of any sort of sentimentality than of her sudden sense of grace at potentially being refused. _"The Sylvanas I loved is gone!"_ Alleria screamed at the Spire, unrecognizable in her photo-negative void form. _"All that is left is a wretched, obscene mockery of my sister."_

_What changed, Alleria? Why would you want to attend a monster's wedding?_

Sylvanas inhales and exhales slowly, the unnecessary habit a comfort she indulges when she's full. She agrees with Alleria and the rest of the world: she is not what she once was, though she had little say in the matter of the Lich King flaying her. Frostmourne's scar and her sapphire necklace rest atop her sternum, ugly reminders of her past. Her sisters' matching amulets lay tangled in her nightstand drawer, the emerald and ruby in desperate need of polishing.

_Little Moon begged us not to fight._

She winces, partially at the memory of hurting Vereesa and partially at the use of her sister's pet name. Vereesa wept at the Spire, a softer echo of her sobbing at Hellscream's Trial, and apologized for her cowardice, for her betrayal. Sylvanas wishes her anger would spring up again, protective and concealing, a safe, hard shell. But she only feels sadness and fatigue.

From her seat near the fireplace, she glances to the bedroom door. Jaina still naps, as well she should after her ragged, weary appearance in the halls of Grommash Hold this morning. She could smell a hint of her magic-- _perhaps she summons when she sleeps_ \-- but the Lord Admiral has apparently not woken despite the mid-afternoon hour. To Jaina's credit, she managed to hold her own in the Horde council meeting, at least until prodded.

Sylvanas smirks. Talanji is a bold creature who, three months ago, might have pleased her by doubting the Alliance's intentions, but Jaina Proudmoore is the future Warqueen of the Horde and the Alliance first peer. Politics aside, she would eviscerate Talanji in a fight. Even weakened as she is by her own exhausted body, Jaina is one of the finest sorceresses in Azeroth, and certainly the most stubborn. Sylvanas could count on one hand the other mages even close to matching her raw power.

And she didn't see any of them levitating battleships, excessive and flamboyant as it was.

Sylvanas replaces the letter in its envelope on the table and sets it beside a small silver tray, full of food and a pitcher of water. The meal Abnar prepared for Jaina is a simple ham sandwich and some sliced fruit, but Sylvanas supposes it's better than nothing.

She rises from her seat and quietly approaches the bedroom door. The hour is late, and she risks Proudmoore's wrath if she lets her sleep any longer. Granted, she risks Proudmoore's wrath no matter what she does. _At least she's consistent._

Just before turning the doorknob, she pulls her hand away, reconsidering. Surprising Jaina awake by hovering over her sleeping form would almost certainly result in an ice spike through the chest, and Sylvanas has seen enough of frost-themed weapons bursting through her ribcage, though Jaina's magic was most impressive when utilized against the Scourge. After last night, she needs all the sleep she can get.

Sylvanas recalls how fervently she used to love returning from ranging or missions, and fall into her plush bed at the Spire, hair still damp from her bath. Even the bed in the Undercity, while she rarely slept in it, was a comforting, luscious, safe space in which she greatly enjoyed lounging. In the old days, her family and her Rangers frequently mocked her extravagance, but her body and mind were always better off after she indulged herself.

She had yet to attempt sleeping on the bed in Orgrimmar, though she read her reports on it occasionally, propped up against pillows, until one of her multitudinous duties called her away to somewhere less relaxing.

She eyes the woodgrain of the closed door, respecting the physical manifestation of an unspoken boundary: waking someone from sleep is an intimacy Sylvanas has not experienced in decades, and will never experience again. Jaina would not appreciate her overstepping by entering the room and touching her directly. 

Instead, she knocks firmly three times and says, "Jaina."

From inside she hears a quick inhale and the rustling of fabric beneath the sheets. Her ears tilt toward the sound, listening for a reply. Halfway between a sigh and a moan, Jaina says, "I'm awake." She coughs deeply, and clears her throat.

Sylvanas backs away from the door, her eyebrows knitting together. "Are you getting sick?"

"No," Jaina sharply replies.

"Hmm," Sylvanas says. She returns to her seat on the sofa, tossing the decorative pillows to the other couch across the room.

When Jaina emerges from the bedroom she has not bothered to re-dress, but shuffles into the living room in her black leggings and socks, braiding her hair. Though she still wears her usual high-collared white corset, her shoulders are bare. Sylvanas feels like she should look away or offer her more comfortable clothing, though she has none to give.

"What time is it?" Jaina asks.

"Two in the afternoon."

"I've been asleep for _four hours_?" Jaina asks, horrified.

"Yes, and I'd have let you sleep longer if I expected any reaction other than," she waves her hand, "this. But you are consistently unreasonable about your sleeping schedule."

Jaina ties off her braid with a practiced flick of her wrist, snapping her hair tie in place. The tension returns to her face instantly. "An Alliance city was bombed today. I don't think it's unreasonable for the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras to at least be awake in the aftermath."

Sylvanas sees Jaina holding herself accountable, the permanent self-imposed stress and shame a penitent mask on her face. As if Jaina equates suffering with responsibility: if she'd only tried harder, if she'd only been more prepared, she could have prevented Stratholme or Theramore or her father's death.

Sylvanas knows that sentiment well. She says, "We managed without your assistance."

Jaina stares at her as if contemplating how offended she should be. The words are meant to be a comfort, but they sound biting and harsh in her mouth. Sylvanas grimaces, "That is to say, we've thoroughly swept Ironforge and there is no indication of a secondary attack. SI:7 and my own spies have begun rooting out the Loyalist network. Recovery efforts are well underway."

Lilian and Anya had already provided their reports, their retellings shockingly aligned. Sylvanas never expects the full truth from Lilian Voss, despite her incredible efficiency in dispatching threats to the Forsaken. She hesitates to send the undead woman to Boralus to follow up on the next Loyalist bombing target; the possibility of her finding Thomas Zelling is far too high. Sylvanas crushes the knot of guilt that rises in her throat, another dirty little secret kept from everyone. One day she would tell Jaina about sending Zelling to spy on Menethil, but not today. Not before the wedding.

"The next target location is Boralus," Sylvanas continues. "Your mother has been warned and is taking appropriate precautions. She has the full report, and my people have offered their assistance to SI:7 in whatever capacity they need."

Jaina's face grows cold and emotionless. She stands perfectly still, blue eyes fixed momentarily on the fireplace beside her feet, then her eyelids slide closed. She stands there for long that Sylvanas wonders if it's possible she fell back asleep. She wouldn't blame her if she did. When her half-lidded eyes open again, they settle on the silver tray.

"Abnar made you a sandwich," Sylvanas lamely offers.

Jaina blinks, sniffling. "Thank you," she says.

With a sigh she takes a seat on the sofa nearest the fireplace and across from Sylvanas, rearranging the many pillows to suit her. At least they wouldn't argue about their seating arrangements. Jaina pours a glass of water for each of them, then daintily lifts the sandwich to her mouth and begins to eat. She nods appreciatively, "It's very good."

"I will inform him," says Sylvanas. She sits in her normal seat, legs crossed, one gauntlet resting on the armrest. In the window's light, she can see the faint discoloration of Jaina's shoulder, the skin beginning to yellow from where she grabbed her this morning. Sylvanas peels her eyes away. She shouldn't have touched her, much like she shouldn't have touched her when they first met alone on the balcony of the Violet Citadel, moments before their first screaming match.

_It seems I never learn_.

"Drink your water," says Jaina between bites.

Sylvanas' eyes narrow.

"That's the deal. I eat, you drink your water."

"I never made a deal," Sylvanas says. 

"Not verbally, but that's the deal."

Sylvanas heaves an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes, but leans forward to retrieve her glass. She takes a sip, ignoring Jaina's poorly-hidden gloating. Water, at least, is tasteless by design. Unlike any attempt to eat the food of the living, water remains refreshing and somewhat enjoyable.

"I can have another fox sent to you, if you'd like to eat before the wedding," says Jaina.

"I assume I have little say in this matter?"

Jaina shrugs, swallowing a piece of orange. "You have all the say you want. I'll not go out of my way to catch a fox if you aren't going to eat it."

"You should be sleeping, not wandering the forest for foxes," Sylvanas says, taking another sip of water.

"If you'd eat fish this would be much easier."

Sylvanas scowls, "No fish."

Jaina hums noncommittally. "I'll have Taelia bring you a fox tomorrow morning. Tell your Rangers to expect her so there isn't a misunderstanding." She finishes her sandwich, leaning back against the sofa, her posture relaxed for once. "For the wedding security detail, Vereesa asked that I tell you she's tripling her numbers. She hopes you will do the same."

Sylvanas watches as Jaina reads her face, scrutinizing her for a reaction to the mention of her sister's name as plainly as she observed her in the Spire. Sylvanas betrayed her feelings as they traveled up the shoddy staircases, but has no desire to provide Jaina with more emotion to analyze.

"I planned to," she says calmly. "I will speak with Anya and Nathanos about increasing our numbers. It will be no issue."

Jaina nods once, satisfied. Her lips part for a moment before she speaks again, as if debating how to proceed. She says, "I believe we both received letters from Alleria."

Sylvanas points to the letter on the table, then taps the armored finger against her glass. She says, "I did."

"I have not yet responded to her, but I will support whatever decision you make on the matter." Jaina's voice is smooth and casual. "I'd be happy to have her there, but don't want that to come at the cost of your discomfort."

"I feel no discomfort."

"At the cost of your," Jaina searches for the right word, "displeasure, then."

"I feel no displeasure."

Jaina scoffs, "Now that's an abject lie. You're displeased about everything."

"I am not," Sylvanas snaps. The words leave her lips in a hot burst of anger before she fully processes them. "I don't care if Alleria comes to the wedding. She's Anduin's problem, not mine."

"Fine," Jaina snipes back. "Then I'll tell her she has your blessing-"

"I will write my _own_ reply, thank you very much."

Jaina crosses her arms, her lips pressed into a flat line. Her dark circles look more prominent with the sunlight at her back, and the thinness of her body borders on frailty. As if confirming Sylvanas' assessment of her fragile physicality, she coughs twice into the crook of her elbow.

"You're getting sick," says Sylvanas.

"I'm not." Jaina's eyes flick back up to Sylvanas' face, a touch concerned. They travel across her sharp cheekbones, pausing on her lips, before lowering to the table as she says, "Tell me about the il'amaren."

Purely on reflex, Sylvanas recoils. Somehow she hadn't counted on her abruptly changing the subject to a topic they've both been desperately avoiding, but no one is as determined or spiteful as Jaina. Sylvanas sets her jaw in a feeble recovery attempt and says, "It's the equivalent of a kiss in any human or Forsaken wedding."

Sylvanas provides no additional details, so Jaina asks, "When does it happen?"

"Normally at the very end of the ceremony, but for us it will be during the Fisherman's Knot. Our hands will be bound."

Jaina's eyebrows raise. "That's... certainly not traditional."

Sylvanas read about the Fisherman's Knot, and how the Kul Tirans emphasized the binding of flesh on flesh. Her own hands are mutilated and cold, her veins prominent beneath her skeletal frame despite the lack of bloodflow. Jaina's never seen them up close.

Sylvanas planned to wear gloves to the wedding, but that is, unfortunately, no longer a possibility. She must respect the Kul Tiran tradition as Jaina is respecting the Quel'Thalassian one. Her muscles tense against her armor. 

"I suspect any break from traditionalism was your king's idea," Sylvanas says. Liadrin would never suggest that change, regardless of the photo opportunity it presents, though she has her old friend firmly to blame for including the kiss. Sylvanas takes a long sip of water, mulling over why Jaina appears genuinely surprised by this information. A slow smile of realization dawns across her face.

"You haven't read the script."

A blush sweeps up Jaina's throat, pink beneath her high collar and anchor pendant, bright across her cheeks. "I was a little busy last night."

"We've had it for a week," Sylvanas rests her chin in her hand, more amused than she anticipated. She feels like she's chiding Jaina for not submitting her homework on time.

"I haven't had much free time."

"I'm sure," says Sylvanas. "Though you can't use sleeping as an excuse."

The room is still for a moment, Sylvanas and Jaina watching each other from opposite sofas, the fireplace burning down to embers beside them. Shifting on the cushions, Jaina pulls her knees up to her chest, curled into a tight ball that somehow makes her even smaller. Sylvanas doesn't sense malice in her gaze anymore, only resignation and determination. Without her armor and her regal posture, Jaina looks far more like a tired mage who spent all night hunched over tomes in Dalaran's library, desperate to study and not at all sorry to have forgone sleep in exchange. This version of her feels truer, less performative.

"No, I can't blame sleeping. That will never be my justification for shirking work."

Sylvanas asks, "Is it really shirking work if you're occupied with other work?"

"I suppose not," Jaina smiles. "A lack of priority then. Regardless, thank you for letting me sleep."

"You obviously needed it." Sylvanas shrugs, "And you would have figured the wedding out, script or not. We have to stand there being ogled, but have nothing to say except 'I do.'"

They don't even need to repeat the vows, or exchange rings, as neither Kul Tirans nor high elves customarily wear them. Sylvanas read several excerpts about Boralus' courting traditions, and found it was far more likely that sailors carve whale bones into spoons or keys for their betrothed rather than buy them a ring, though she doubts Jaina would partake in that particular ritual, romantic implications aside. If she didn't have time to read her own wedding ceremony script, she didn't have the time or energy to carve whale bones.

"How does it normally go?" Jaina asks. "I've never seen an il'amaren."

"It's far less of a spectacle than what humans and Forsaken do," she says. "No dipping or wolf-whistles or anything so tawdry." Sylvanas is far from religious, having seen firsthand the sort of damage life and death magic could do, much less order and disorder, or light and shadow. No cosmic forces deserve to be worshiped, in her humble opinion. They simply exist the same as she does.

But she knows her traditions, and would not disparage her history. She says, "The il'amaren is a chaste thing, where we're meant to receive a blessing. The officiant says, 'I present you to the gods with this assembly as witness.' Then there's a kiss. It's nothing special."

Sylvanas tries not to think about the logistics of kissing Jaina Proudmoore. She's touched her before, and the skin of their arms has brushed more than once. She knows, logically, that Jaina is warm and objectively beautiful.

Her ears lower and she feels a twinge of guilt for making Jaina kiss something undead and ugly, even if she views it as another responsibility she must shoulder as the Alliance's first peer. They must maintain the illusion of compatibility; they must set the example. Sylvanas considers that Jaina must suffer twice during the ceremony: her living hands bound to dead ones, her lips pressed to a banshee's gruesome mouth.

_Alleria is right: this is a mockery. A true il'amaren requires a living elf._

"You can refuse it," Sylvanas mumbles. "It wasn't my idea."

"No," says Jaina, her eyes fixed on the pillow by her feet. "I think it's a good addition. We'll be a unified front and all that." She glances up at her. "As long as you're all right with it?"

"It's fine," she mutters.

"Good."

They sit quietly, each having run out of words, until Jaina breaks the silence with a deep sigh. She rises from the sofa, rolling her neck as she stands. "I need to return to Boralus and speak with my mother." She gives Sylvanas a final look before she disappears into the bedroom to retrieve her clothing, donning the heavy uniform of the Lord Admiral once again. Through the partially open door, Sylvanas catches her meticulously making the bed, smoothing the comforter until all evidence of her nap vanishes.

Now fully dressed, Jaina approaches the portal, clears her throat, and says, "Thank you for letting me rest, and for the food." She turns to face Sylvanas as the snowflake glows to life and her arcane scent fills the room. "I look forward to seeing your dress tomorrow."

"I certainly hope it was worth all the effort," Sylvanas says dryly. She hastily adds, "And likewise."

Jaina offers a small smile, then steps through the portal to Boralus. The room is silent again without her occupying the space, and Sylvanas takes a final sip of water, glancing down at Alleria's letter. She sets the empty glass on the table, trading it for a quill.

She toys with making some ultimatum: _sign the Unification Treatise if you wish to join us at the wedding._ But she stays her hand. The quill dances around her fingertips for a moment longer before she grows frustrated and simply writes:

_Alleria,_

_Attend as you wish._

_-Sylvanas_

She folds the letter and slides it into the envelope. Sylvanas opens the front door into the staircase where Kalira waits. She hands off the letter and her orders for it, and begins her slow descent to Abnar's crowded workshop where he and the Forsaken tailors finalize her dress alterations. Tomorrow is Winter's End, and her wedding day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your supportive comments. They brighten my day in a major way, and never cease to motivate me to write more. <3
> 
> Ask, and ye shall receive. [siDEADde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siDEADde/pseuds/siDEADde), you have outdone yourself with the IAH Windrunner Trauma Bingo Card! 


	26. Anya, Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT.
> 
> But first, sad thoughts with Anya.

Anya sits alone in the window nook of the Warchief's Suite, her legs curled up beneath her. The red dawn has faded to the soft white light of mid-morning, and the city churns with excitement. The glass is cold against her right ear as she looks down to the Drag where the overcrowded people come and go, trolls with their Winter's End shopping bags in hand, orcs with their heads ducked beneath the falling snow. The Forsaken mingle with their fellows, looking perpetually out of place anywhere but the Undercity. She considers it a blessing that they still have a home at all, a roof over their heads.

_We are better off than the night elves in Thunder Bluff._ She bites the inside of her cheek. The Spirit Rise swarmed with kaldorei, eyes wide, hands reaching out for Tyrande Whisperwind, her imposing form gliding among them. She touched them all in silence, as if offering tacit blessings from Elune, her black eyes unfocused on the faces before her. She saw only their ramshackle tents and threadbare coats, their sparse food and shivering bodies.

Anya watched her yesterday evening, invisible and crouching on a rooftop as far from Tyrande as she could manage without losing sight of her. Once, her braided head turned in Anya's direction, eyes piercing straight through her heart as the black moon loomed behind her.

All Anya could think was, _It should be daylight; it should be bright outside_ , as wave after wave of heavy terror crashed down on her, her grip painfully tight on the hilts of her swords. But Tyrande's gaze turned away at last, continuing her processional amid the cries of "High Priestess! Night Warrior! Elune be praised!" Their desperate, fanatical joy pierced the air, but Tyrande did not smile, a stone in the sea. The people cried out and touched her, her face still and empty, her eyes roaming the throng of kaldorei around her.

Anya leans against the cold window, red eyes mournful. The black moon terrifies her. Tyrande Whisperwind terrifies her.

Even Maiev Shadowsong terrifies her, a gaunt, decrepit ghost of her former vigor, half-dead on a pallet. And Baine, so stable and powerful, walks in Tyrande's shadow, paralyzed by fear despite his good deeds. Shandris Feathermoon signed the peace treaty too, but Anya knows better than to underestimate her. Shandris slew Ranger-Captain Areiel in Zandalar, and they were allies once: they stood back-to-back in the Troll Wars, defending Silvermoon from the Amani incursion. She could not blame Shandris for her hatred of the Horde, of the Dark Rangers and Sylvanas, not after everything they'd done.

She swallows thickly, her ears flat against her skull. Anya abandoned Sylvanas, they all did, drawing away when she needed support, terrified of her responses, her anger, as if she might one day turn against her own people. Anya dwells in guilt over it when she lets her mind wander: the dishonor of forsaking her Ranger-General, her friend, in the months when she experienced her greatest grief. Anya said nothing, Nathanos said nothing, no different than Baine Bloodhoof before Teldrassil. Only Delaryn spoke against the Dark Lady on the beach, and she paid the ultimate price for it.

And now this inevitable retribution looms over them, every bit of it deserved. Anya is willing to die again for it. She made her choice, and will pay whatever price is demanded.

She relives the pain of her second-newest trauma too: how yesterday Valeera and Lilian did not react at all to the torture of a bound man, offering only a dishonorable death for a dishonorable traitor. But Anya is sick of the violence that permeates her days, the constant threat of danger, the way it has all crept into her existence like a bad habit, and her true death has become an expectation. She feels like a cloth worn thin.

Her unbeating heart twists in her chest and tears well in her eyes, the first time in years she's felt the urge to cry. She thinks, _At least, when I die, I'll see Loralen again._

She found her wife's broken body-- nothing but a nameless corpse in Ranger armor beneath the permanent frost of Icecrown-- brutalized by the Lich King a second time. Sylvanas and Marrah dragged Anya off of her, shrieking for murder like only a banshee could. She writhed and clawed and begged, but they pulled her away in retreat, away to safety, away from Loralen. She had all of Sylvanas' agony, but none of her power to escape them, and they wouldn't let her rest with her wife.

They loved her too much to abandon her to die. Her face twists in regret, cheeks wet with tears. She loves them too, but how much more did she love Loralen, dead and alone and forsaken, never to hold her or sing again?

A blue light and the scent of Jaina's magic fill the room, and Anya hastily wipes away the tears in her eyes, embarrassed and frustrated with the awful timing of her emotions. She never cries around her sisters-- she never cries at all-- and she hates herself for letting the tension of her week leave her vulnerable. She's meant to be stronger than that.

Resisting the urge to become invisible, she turns her head and sees Taelia step through the portal, her olive green armor dark beneath the fur of the red fox slung over her shoulder. Her bright smile fades immediately when she registers the look of misery and undried tears on Anya's face.

"Anya," she says, rushing toward her, stopping only to set the fox and her warhammer on the floor. Taelia scoots into the windowsill beside her, one hand resting on her knee, and asks, "Are you all right?"

Soft brown eyes roam her face and Anya feels her throat tighten, tears hot in her eyes again. She can't trust her voice, but shakes her head no: she has not been all right in a very long time. She doesn't sob-- Dark Rangers don't sob-- but her lip quivers and she hangs her head low, eyes closed tight in shame.

Taelia slides closer, wrapping her muscular arms around Anya and pulling her into a hug. Anya heaves a shuddering sigh, unfurls her legs, and buries her face into the Kul Tiran sage scarf around her neck. She smells like fresh soap and milk, and one of her hands presses the fabric of Anya's hood onto the base of her head, holding her steady as she cries. Her body is warm against Anya's cool skin, chilled from sitting beside the window for so long.

Taelia murmurs, "You tell me what you need, and I'll make it happen, okay?"

Anya curls her hands into fists around any fabric she can find, nodding and desperately clinging to Taelia. She cries harder, unable to close the floodgates she so foolishly opened, allowing herself to be vulnerable when she wouldn't be alone. She shouldn't have thought of Loralen with her anxieties already honed to a razor's edge and Sylvanas' wedding a few hours away. She needs to be stronger and smarter and sharper, but as she sobs into Taelia's chest, she knows she simply isn't right now.

Taelia gently slides closer, pulling Anya's legs across her lap, her chin resting on her hood. She lets her cry without interruption or questions, and offers two steady hands on the back of Anya's shaking body, rooting her firmly in place.

It feels like hours before Anya's breathing calms, fading back into nothingness. Before she lifts her head to face Taelia, she mumbles, "I'm sorry."

Taelia says, "You don't have to be sorry for being sad." The hand on the back of her head rises for a moment, then settles back in place, dependable and still. "I'm only sorry that you're hurting."

Anya does not detach herself from Taelia, who makes no move to untangle their bodies either. It feels nice and she doesn't often feel nice things, and she knows the moment will be broken if she pulls away, the warmth of her embrace lost to the winter air. Taelia doesn't press for details or offer mindless condolences; she simply sits and holds her tightly, and Anya realizes that she has not been held, has not been comforted, since Loralen died.

Anya closes her eyes, and tells Taelia what she feels; she tells her everything.

The words are fumbling and soft, far more than she's used to speaking at a stretch, but she tells her she's afraid to die again. She tells her about Loralen and Sylvanas and Tyrande and Valeera and Lilian, and feels like her guilt and terror are safe in Taelia's hands. She listens and holds her, the cadence of her breath hypnotically calming.

Anya still feels embarrassed for allowing herself to be laid bare, for ignoring the ingrained warning her brain repeats: sharing so much information with the Lord Admiral's bodyguard is dangerous, a threat to the Horde. Still, Sylvanas made such a show of leaving them alone in her suite, and warning her that Taelia herself would deliver the meal, that she must suspect something of their connection.

Sylvanas must have seen her watching Taelia, daydreaming and overtly interested. Anya never did hide things well from the people who knew her best.

They sit wrapped together in the windowsill and silence for a long moment, the morning sun just beginning to warm the glass, and Anya finishes with, "I've had a bad week."

Taelia laughs, smiling again in spite of her own watery eyes, and the sound is as much a relief as her embrace. She says, "It sounds like it's been a bit longer than a week."

"Maybe so," says Anya. She musters up the courage to lean back, and return Taelia her freedom. She pulls her body away, telling herself the tingling sensation on her cheeks is merely from acclimating to Taelia's warmth. Her legs still rest over Taelia's, their fingertips a hair's breadth apart from each other.

As soon as they separate, Anya regrets it. She wants to be held again, or to hold Taelia and show her how nice it feels.

"I would like to spend time with you," Anya blurts, "under happier circumstances."

Taelia's dark eyes go wide, and Anya interlaces their fingers, worried she's scared her off, but knowing it's too late to take back her tears and her words. She can give her honesty, and the chance to refuse. Though her own ears pin low against her head in fear, she notices how Taelia releases the breath she's been holding. She has the loveliest brown hair and eyes, so rare and pleasing to quel'dorei-- Marrah and Alina couldn't stop talking about her looks-- and Anya inhales the breath Taelia exhaled, suddenly self-conscious again.

"Would you like to go out with me sometime?" Taelia asks in her lovely, lilting accent. She shifts their hands, covering Anya's with both of her own like she's trying to keep them warm. "Not the wedding or dinner in Boralus. Just us two." Her cheeks redden. "Unless you want other people there, which is totally fine!"

Anya can be a quiet woman, distant and solemn when people want her opinion. She has never liked speaking of her desires, for so often it seems the voiced ones do not come true. But she is an honest woman, and she would never lie to Taelia.

"I would like it to be just us." She rearranges their fingers, interlacing them, and says, "I would like that very much."

Taelia smiles at her with sunshine in her veins, and Anya smiles back, wide and full. Her ears perk up unbidden, giddy at Taelia's endearing happiness. Her face isn't used to such extremes, or anything but steady indifference.

"There are some places in Boralus I think you'll like," Taelia says. "They aren't fancy, but they're fun."

"I don't need fancy," Anya says, and it's true: she never was a very good elf. She likes the forests and people watching and exploring, all the quiet things she rarely experiences since she died.

"That's perfect then," says Taelia. Her eyes glance down toward the fox regretfully, and she worries at her lip, the motion innocent and sweet. "I should head back home. I promised Lucille I would help set everything up."

"Of course."

Anya slides her legs away sheepishly, releasing Taelia to retrieve her warhammer. Brown hair falls over her eyes as she leans down, and Anya considers that she is a great deal like this time of day: the mid-morning when the whole world is fully awake and the honey-sun is shining, not yet overbearing in its heat. Comfortable, refreshing, a time to rise.

Taelia relatches her warhammer, moving toward the portal. She presses her hand to the snowflake pattern and says, "I'll see you later then?"

Anya rises from the windowsill. She has missed enough mornings.

"Taelia," she says. The human turns back to face her, smiling as the portal glows blue behind her. Anya closes the space between them and says, "Thank you."

She stands on her tiptoes, her head tilted back, and presses her lips to Taelia's. She kisses her slowly and sweetly, one hand on Taelia's shoulder, as a pair of hands hold her hips. She has never kissed a living woman since she died: heat blossoming against her lips, a thrumming pulse beneath her palm, altogether new and invigorating, a space to explore. When Taelia makes a small whimpering noise, Anya pulls back just enough for her to breathe again, their foreheads still pressed together. Taelia's eyes are closed, a dreamy smile painted on her breathless features.

"I'll see you later," Anya whispers. She watches as Taelia backs through the portal, her beautiful brown eyes still smiling.

* * *

The Archmage's Diadem is, ironically, nonmagical. It rests on Jaina's white hair, the interwoven gold bleeding pink in the evening light, a delicate crown with a small diamond pressed against the skin of Jaina's forehead.

She looks out the porthole of the _Admiral's Pride_ at the small security dinghies and sloops anchored in Orgrimmar Harbor, lost in thought as her mother and Lucille flit about the Lord Admiral's cabin with flowers and last minute orders. She wonders if Nathanos and the Rangers are doing the same for Sylvanas in the captain's quarters, the mental picture not entirely incongruous with what she knows of them.

Her eyes follow the ruddy glow of the setting sun. _The tides haven't changed_ , she thinks. _Whatever Tyrande did to Thunder Bluff is outside of the moon's cycle. The cosmos haven't shifted despite her eclipse, the same as it was on Darkshore._

Jaina coughs lightly, the tickle in the back of her throat becoming an ache increasingly difficult to ignore. She woke this morning with no voice until her scalding hot coffee came to the rescue, though it did nothing to allay her headache. She worked all morning, wedding be damned, visiting both Stormwind and Ironforge, reading report after report from Valeera and SI:7 on the Loyalists and Tyrande's arrival in Thunder Bluff. It wasn't until the doors of the Lord Admiral's cabin closed behind her and her mother pulled the wedding dress from its garment bag that she even had the time to process the notion that she would be a married woman by sunset.

She turns from the circular window to the rest of the room, blinking gingerly at the electric lights inside. She counts herself fortunate that her adrenaline still sustains her: she hardly slept three hours last night-- _As Sylvanas predicted,_ she wryly thinks-- and knows she will collapse into bed the moment she loses her momentum.

Taelia sits on one of the sofas in a floral green dress, her calloused hands in her lap, swaying as the massive boat rocks in the waves. She looks like she would much rather be patrolling the premises with the rest of the Proudmoore Honor Guard, but Jaina thinks she cuts a fine figure in lace with her dark brown hair lightly curled. She said there were no issues with delivering the sleeping fox to Grommash Hold, but very quietly mentioned that Anya was unnerved by Tyrande's arrival in Thunder Bluff. Jaina did not press her for more details, nor did she ask about the distracted smile her bodyguard wore for the rest of the day. There would be time for that later.

The ship itself had been made softer and brighter than she anticipated, stylized for a traditional wedding, or perhaps decorated by Lucille's own hand. Or Alina's. She'd seen the odd pair fluttering around above deck between the guards, rearranging flowers and chairs in their formal dresses. They slid the heavy banners of Horde and Alliance and Forsaken and Kul Tiras away from the altar, out of the photographers' backdrops, complaining all the while that: _we know why we're here, why should we feature these gaudy, bureaucratic things?_ Jaina could not help but smirk at their shared sense of romantic aesthetic, however exaggerated.

A hand cups her elbow and snaps Jaina from her reverie. Her mother holds out a small, simple bouquet of white roses, nothing too expensive or overdone, and says, "It's nearly time."

Katherine wears a sky blue dress and pearls, a perfect compliment to her icy eyes, her hair braided in the back, perhaps in honor of her daughter. She touches the anchor pendant resting in the window of Jaina's dress-- Lucille told her an hour ago not to mix silver and gold, and that either the pendant or the diadem had to go, but Jaina raised an eyebrow and Lucille relented, off to redecorate the entire ship instead-- and her face softens. When Taelia sees the Proudmoores standing together, she dips her head with a smile and gives them space, disappearing to her seat upstairs.

"I hope you know how proud I am of you," Katherine quietly says. "Your father would be too, even after everything. You are doing something noble and brave, my Jaina." 

Her mother's reassurances heat her skin and constrict her chest, threatening to call forth the tears Jaina can't afford to spill before showing her face upstairs. Though she doubts that her father would find any pleasure in her marrying the Warchief of the Horde, Jaina does not have the emotional capacity to argue that point, or to reopen such a raw wound. Instead she sucks her lips into her mouth and takes a deep breath, her hands tight around the bouquet. She says, "Thank you, mother."

Katherine brushes the lone blonde strand of hair away from Jaina's face, rearranging it beneath the diadem to keep it out of her eyes. "You look lovely with your hair down."

Jaina doesn't accept the compliment, but says, "And you look lovely in a braid." 

"Does Sylvanas know she's a lucky woman?" Katherine asks. The question is mundane and sweet, and the wave of gratitude that Jaina feels at her normalizing this wedding makes her eyes well with tears again. She needs her mother, her support, her smiles. She knows the gnawing pain of being without, and could not survive that ordeal a second time.

Jaina exhales a biting laugh, willing the miserable memories away. "You'll have to remind her."

Katherine purses her lips, amusement obvious in the crinkle of her eyes. "I'd never deprive you of that pleasure."

"She's more likely to listen to you than to me. She's quite stubborn."

"Oh, darling, there's no one more stubborn than you," Katherine says. "I've no doubt you'll educate her. It's what you do best." 

Given the number of times Jaina has been ordered to go to sleep lately, she does not feel equipped to teach anyone anything, least of all the most obstinate woman she's ever encountered. Though the fact that lately Sylvanas has remained calm in the face of adversity is not lost on her, nor is how she protected Jaina from the Scourge, or the delicate way she seemed to respect her space and privacy. Sylvanas ate again this morning, solely because Jaina wished it.

She stares down at the roses in her hands. The string quartet plays faithfully overhead, the boards to the cabin ceiling creaking as the guests shift in their seats. The music changes, a slower, waltzing processional march.

"Are you ready?" asks Katherine.

Jaina tilts her head at the loaded question and thinks, _I have not been ready for a single thing that's happened since Anduin first invited me to Dalaran_ , but she says, "As I'll ever be."

Their entrance is brief, no large introductions or wedding parties to file in, only Jaina and her mother on the Alliance's side, and Sylvanas and Nathanos on the Horde's. It would be too easy to offend the delicate political sensitivities of the other guests if there was any implication of favoritism, even in an arranged marriage. Jaina is somewhat surprised that no one has complained about Liadrin or Anduin playing the roles they do, though perhaps no one else would want the dubious honor of officiating the wedding in their stead.

As she climbs the stairs, there is a particularly gruesome, violent thought that Jaina can't fully suppress in her exhaustion: if a large enough bomb were to explode, here and now on the _Admiral's Pride_ , who would remain to lead the Alliance and Horde? Baine, if Tyrande let him live long enough to assume the mantle of Warchief, though the reports implied she hardly noticed him at all since returning to her people. Tyrande herself had more than adequate claim and support to lead the Alliance, though seemingly no desire to fill that power vacuum. Or Turalyon, who refused to attend the wedding, either in spite of or because of Alleria's presence there.

_He would be a fool to challenge Tyrande if they ever came to blows over the throne, and an even bigger fool to drive Alleria away._

Lights flash from the stern of the ship where the press is stationed, dozens of cameras glinting at once, and the buzzing in her ears begins anew. Jaina blinks herself awake.

She is no stranger to being watched, but this experience is wholly overpowering. The boat has been magically heated below deck far more successfully than above, and the wind blows Jaina's loose hair about her shoulders. She walks arm-in-arm with her mother, their steps in time with the music, and her sluggish brain struggles to process all she sees.

Every chair is full: Azeroth's leaders resplendent in their rich silks and gleaming jewelry, so strangely formal even out of their armor. Some smile, some frown, but all sit proudly in clusters of their own people, at least among those who rank high enough to have a retinue.

Atop a small pedestal built just for this occasion, Liadrin and Anduin stand wearing suits in matching gold trim: hers blood red and his royal blue. They face the audience, proud and stately, both with the confidence of someone used to people listening when they speak, their scripts memorized to perfection. White roses jostle and twitch in their vases on the altar, miraculously untoppled by the wind and waves. The harbor is steady enough for sailing today, but a touch choppy for the most important wedding of all time.

She catches Genn's mistrustful eye from his place beside his wife and daughter. He still believes this is effectively a funeral, his chiseled face all gallows, his hands bound as if Jaina walks the plank to her own demise. He stares at Sylvanas like she's going to kill Jaina in her sleep one night, or make good on her collateral like some melodramatic villain, and offer the Alliance a new treaty: relinquish all power to the Horde or the Lord Admiral gets an arrow in the heart.

Perhaps Jaina is particularly delirious, but she finds the concept of a betrayal at this point laughably absurd. Sylvanas bullied her into a nap and fed her a ham sandwich yesterday. Now that Jaina's well-being reflects on her, she cares a great deal.

Of the Horde only Thrall and Aggra smile at her fondly, but Talanji watches Jaina from three rows back, her eyes so clearly sneering, _I will wrestle all of your sovereignty away, Lord Admiral. The curtain is drawn back and we know the truth of you: you are a worm and a filthy war criminal._

Jaina wants to sigh, but will not betray that weakness. Instead she lifts her chin and strides forward with all the dignity her surname and station demand.

She spares a quick glance at the rest of the ship, and spots Valeera in her bright red dress, lingering alone near the back, close to where Shandris and Alleria huddle together. Vereesa watches Sylvanas from the front row, a inscrutable, shocked look on her face, one that Jaina now notices she shares with her eldest sister far in the back. Her own brothers are seated in the front row, both looking fine in their tuxedos, on the opposite side of the aisle from the Dark Rangers, all of them in black gowns. Apparently, they'd coordinated.

The rest of the faces fade into a blur, and she stares forward at Sylvanas instead, statuesque and proud beside Nathanos.

Her mother's dress is simple satin, the sculpted bodice just high enough to hide her scar, an understated bow on the left side. Sylvanas' hair is half-up in an intricate knot, straight and ashen grey where it falls on her shoulders. The Swan Feather Cape of the Ranger-General trails ceremoniously behind her, and she wears a sapphire necklace on a silver chain, the stone shining blue against her purple skin, with dangling earrings to match. Jaina recognizes the homages to the Windrunner's wedding portrait, this small reflection of their memory the only thing Sylvanas has left to give her parents. She recognizes the necklace too, the one from her bedstand table, a twin to the ruby one Vereesa used to wear.

Jaina thinks it is all quite becoming on her. _It was certainly worth the trip to the Spire._ She grins, her cheeks warm, and hopes her face conveys the sentiment.

From her place between Nathanos and Liadrin, Sylvanas discreetly smirks back, her eyes appraising Jaina's dress in return. She seems satisfied by the clinging lace, and the static buzzing in Jaina's ears fades away.

She stands on her mark before the altar, and Katherine raises her hand to Jaina's high collar, her fingertips dancing across the lace. Sylvanas' gaze follows the motion, just as she did at the Peer Meeting, and Jaina wonders if she can hear the way her mother breathes, "Good luck, my Jaina," with tears gleaming in her eyes.

Nathanos, as usual, hides nothing. He turns his bearded face away from the crowd, but Jaina does not miss how his jaw is closed like a vicegrip in some feeble attempt to keep his lips from quivering. He is, at present, closer to weeping than Katherine Proudmoore.

He presents Sylvanas to her mark beside Liadrin, and lowly says, "This has been my absolute privilege, Dark Lady."

She replies, "I would have it no other way, Nathanos."

Their escorts sit, and finally Sylvanas and Jaina are alone before the crowd, staring at one another, bouquets clenched like weapons in their fists. She feels suddenly quite nervous, her breath short and clipped. Jaina smooths her face to stillness, to regain a modicum of control, as Anduin and Liadrin alternate their dignified opening statements. The crowd listens with rapt attention but the words fade from Jaina's memory as soon as they're spoken.

She is so distracted by her own anxiety, and finding unexpected solace in its reflection on Sylvanas' drawn face, that she practically jumps out of her skin when Anduin addresses her:

"Jaina Lenore Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, Daughter of the Sea, former Ruler of Theramore, and Archmage Emeritus of the Kirin Tor, I present you to be wed under Azeroth's Unification Treatise as the Alliance's First Peer."

Liadrin continues:

"Sylvanas Elia Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde, Queen of the Forsaken, the Dark Lady, and former Ranger-General of Silvermoon, I present you to be wed under Azeroth's Unification Treatise as the Horde's First Peer." 

Liadrin steps forward in her tailored suit, taking both of their rose bouquets, stepping aside to make room for Anduin. He removes a white ribbon from his pocket and says, "On behalf of the Alliance, I lead you in the Fisherman's Knot, the oldest tradition of Kul Tiran handfasting, a symbolic rite most fitting in this time of peace and new allegiances."

It occurs to Jaina at once that they really should have practiced this together, as Sylvanas does not know how to position her hands. She thrusts them forward aggressively, like she cannot stand the sight of them, and fixes her eyes on a point past Jaina's left shoulder. Her hands are spindly and scarred, angular like the rest of her. Jaina takes the initiative, joining right with right and left with left, her own palms overbearingly hot compared to Sylvanas' frigid ones. Once they touch, the initial reluctance melts from Sylvanas' face, and she watches with growing curiosity as the ribbon wraps around them, each bow a new plateau of relief.

"With this knot I bind you, beneath the stars, above the waves, a vow before the ocean," Anduin intones for the crowd. The ribbon is soft against Jaina's bare flesh. She does her best to ignore her mother, whose weeping grows increasingly intense.

The cameras flash across the deck, shutters loud above the cello's music, as Anduin ties the Fisherman's Knot, undoubtedly thankful that Sylvanas fidgets less than Valeera ever could. As the white ribbon nets their hands, Sylvanas quietly says in a half-playful tone, "It's not too late to back out. There's still time to fling yourself overboard."

To his credit Anduin doesn't falter, though his eyes widen in something akin to abject horror. Liadrin groans under her breath behind him.

Jaina glances down at their hands, Sylvanas' long fingertips resting on her inner wrist, a cool stone against her pulse. The ribbon weaves around them and she finds herself gladdened that the fox blood still shines through. "At this point I think I'd be flinging us both overboard. The press would have a field day," she says.

"Thus I bind you as one," the High King says, speaking over Jaina's muttering and tying the final bow into place. "The First Peers of Azeroth."

Anduin steps back and Liadrin stands in his place, resting a hand on both of their shoulders. Jaina quells the discomforting notion that now, not only is she physically tied to Sylvanas Windrunner's hands, but Liadrin Sunthread has her captured. She thinks, _Two months ago they'd have torn me apart._

But Jaina sees, for just a moment, that there is a smirk on Liadrin's face, her green-gold eyes staring wryly at Sylvanas. It passes quickly, and her solemnity returns.

She says, "On behalf of the Horde, I lead you in the il'amaren, the blessing of old Quel'Thalas."

Anduin speaks clearly beside her, "Sylvanas Elia Windrunner, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Her eyes lock onto Jaina's, a challenge, a promise, the same as the one she first offered in Dalaran. She says, "I do."

Liadrin speaks next, her voice powerful, "Jaina Lenore Proudmoore, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Jaina matches Sylvanas' gaze, and she does not hesitate. It's too late for that, irreverent joking aside. She says, "I do."

"Then let all of Azeroth know you are bound, now and forever, as bastions of this peace and as the safekeepers of each other's hearts."

Liadrin's hands slide up to where their shoulders meet their necks, and she and Anduin bow their heads. In tandem, they recite something under their breath, a whispered blessing, a desperate plea for this peace to sustain, and Jaina feels for the first time the magnitude of her actions. They chant simultaneously, fervent and solemn, and the crowd responds to the their strange tableau. She feels Sylvanas' hands constrict around her own, as if she senses it too, the heavy burden resting between them.

They whisper their prayer in unison, "What we have joined this day, let nothing sever. By the Light and all the Powers, by my hand and by my heart, I bind thee. For the Alliance, for the Horde."

The whole ship is painfully silent, _reverent_ as Liadrin raises her head, releasing them from her grip, her voice low and thick with emotion. She says, "I present you to the gods with this assembly as witness."

Jaina recognizes the cue to kiss at once, the rush of her blood a cacophony in her mind. Sylvanas falters too, and her ears twitch as if she wills them not to lower any more than they already have, a shade of nervousness and guilt on her face. Jaina inhales and, as the boat rocks, she closes her eyes and leans forward, pressing her lips to Sylvanas' harder than she intended. They are cool against her own, softer than she expected, and she feels Sylvanas tilt her head just slightly, as if finally granting herself permission to kiss her back.

Jaina nearly staggers forward, half-falling against her, Sylvanas' strength the only thing keeping her from toppling. She steadies her with their bound hands, pushing Jaina back onto her heels as gently as she can, following her with her lips.

When they part, Sylvanas' ears are upright and Jaina's cheeks are pink, far closer together than they have ever been before, their eyes roaming each other's faces with unasked questions. Sylvanas looks young, far younger than Jaina has ever seen her.

"What we have joined this day, let nothing sever," repeats Liadrin, a victorious grin on her face.

Anduin steps forward, his voice proud and regal, "I present to you the binding of the Unification Treatise, the First Peers of the Peace, Warqueen Jaina Proudmoore and First Lady of the Fleet Sylvanas Windrunner!"

Finally, the crowd releases a held breath and someone from the front row, undoubtedly Tandred, hollers a whoop that breaks the silence. They clap and laugh as the brides glower at him, even Genn and Talanji smile at their displeasure, and a distant cheer from the docks below swells up to join the noise.

"Well, now we've done it," Jaina says, loud enough for only Sylvanas to hear. She offers her a small smile, anything to ease the tension in her glowing eyes.

Sylvanas huffs, barely a laugh, but her anxiety seems to dissipate as soon as Jaina returns to prodding her. She says, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Anduin gracefully unties their hands, and Jaina finally sees the faces in the crowd, a new sea of tears from her mother and Nathanos. Vereesa and Taelia and Lucille weep as vigorously as all the Dark Rangers. It suddenly feels real to her as she looks at the crowded ship: the peace is here, and the peace might work. She laughs, incredulous and genuine, unbothered by Sylvanas' curious gaze. Jaina has wanted this for so, so long.

Liadrin closes the ceremony as Anduin ushers people below deck to eat and drink and be merry, to celebrate the peace as they all deserved. The guests file downstairs at his orders, most awkwardly clustering around their own faction, pointedly avoiding rubbing elbows with their former enemies, but others like Thrall seek out their peer. Liadrin glances back at them before heading downstairs, her stern face amused by something unknowable.

The ship grows quiet in the absence of the crowd, only the guards and a few photographers remain with the brides above deck. Jaina stayed because Sylvanas stayed, turning her back to the ship, her eyes trained on the city. There is a red sun setting behind them, far to the west, casting crimson lines across Orgrimmar's skyline. The cold of the night begins to sink into her skin as her heartbeat steadies.

"Is it true what they say?" asks Sylvanas. She extends the crook of her elbow, and Jaina takes it in a practiced motion. She ignores the camera shutters clicking behind her; and reminds herself that this is the whole point: to be seen unified.

"What do they say?"

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight."

"It often holds the promise of fair weather, yes," Jaina smiles faintly, glancing up at Sylvanas. Her eyes match the red sky behind her. "Did you read that in your nautical studies, Lady Admiral?"

"I did," she admits. "And the rest of the saying? Red sky at morning, sailors take warning?"

Jaina shrugs lightly, and the skin of her arm slides against Sylvanas', warmer than usual beneath the Swan Feather Cape. "It often foretells dangerous seas."

Sylvanas' eyes trail over Orgrimmar, lingering on the people crowded along the icy docks, come to watch their grandiose wedding from afar. Jaina never desired this attention, this lofty status, and she suspects Sylvanas feels the same, but here they are. They have grown into their stations for better or for worse, and now they are wed. Sylvanas' voice is soft and pensive, none of the fox's happy mockery in her tone.

She murmurs, "And what of days like today, where the sun rose as red as it set?"

The wind clips over the deck, icy and relentless, and Jaina shivers. Without another word, Sylvanas releases her arm and unlatches her cape. She drapes the heavy fabric and white feathers over Jaina's dress, her own freckled shoulders now bare. Jaina immediately feels her own warmth captured beneath the cape, as comfortable as she's been since coming above deck. Sylvanas smooths down a wayward feather on her arm, her face vacant of emotion despite the tender motion. 

Before Jaina can thank her, the cameras flash behind them again, jarring and loud, and Jaina lowers her eyes in rueful embarrassment at having been lost in the moment. The gesture was performative, no different than waving at the unsuspecting crowd in Dalaran. _What had she said? The point was to let the rumor mill begin._ Sylvanas turns back to the docks, and does not respond to the cold or cameras.

Still, the cape is warm, and Sylvanas has not been cruel. If anything, she is nearer to the halfway mark of irritation and amusement. Jaina owes her an answer, some response, however contrived.

"I suppose it means nothing worth doing is ever easy," she says. Jaina clears her throat, the itch once again at the forefront of her mind. "But you'll find Kul Tirans fear no storms."

Sylvanas' lips tug upward. "You've already proven that with your midnight hunting escapades." She extends her arm again, her wiry muscles prominent with no armor or cloak to cover them. "Come, we've a reception to attend, Warqueen. The storms can wait."

Jaina takes her arm, and they walk below deck side-by-side, the Swan Feather Cape and photographers trailing in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to forge a new era of world peace because you want a hot wife.
> 
> Sylvanas' dress inspiration: https://phillipalepley.com/journal/vienna-decollete-bow/


	27. Sylvanas, Taelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BREAK'S OVER TIME TO GET WRECKED

Sylvanas surveys her new battlefield with a practiced eye, noting two universal truths immediately: all elves, regardless of faction, love to socialize, and all Kul Tirans gravitate to an open bar. Katherine Proudmoore raises a quick toast to them when they enter, downing what Sylvanas can only assume is whiskey, as she stands beside Taelia Fordragon, Lucille Waycrest, and most of the Dark Rangers. Her Rangers do not struggle with their spirits, but the other two humans fail to drain their shots as gracefully as the First Mother of the Fleet.

Sylvanas nods at them as they pass through, the sensation of not wearing a hood or her armor somewhat unnerving. She hasn't felt so conspicuous and exposed since her coming-of-age party in Silvermoon, most of which she'd long ago suppressed. Though she still recalled with pleasure how Vereesa and Liadrin learned the hard way that sneaking Booty Bay Rum was a recipe for disaster. Sylvanas smiles. Their mother had been quietly disappointed, but father could only laugh: they were so pathetic and youthful and drunk.

But tonight there are dozens of eyes upon her, and she has no younger siblings who will misbehave for a suitable distraction. She wills herself not to shift uncomfortably in her mother's dress, and supposes it is a small mercy that Jaina Proudmoore is on her arm, drawing far more attention than Sylvanas could ever hope to; she is far more aesthetically pleasing, and the Swan Feather Cape rests proudly on her shoulders, elegant and a touch too long.

Only Alleria and Vereesa watch Sylvanas with hungry, desperate gazes, unable to pick a fixation between her hair and her dress and her necklace. Sylvanas smiles lightly. If nothing else, she has unhorsed her sisters.

Her gaze sweeps the room, crowded tables of food and silverware line a dance floor with a small stage, multiple musicians wait nearby for their time in the spotlight. At present, a sin'dorei prima donna trills beside a pianist, flaunting her high soprano range. Behind the stage Sylvanas notes a gnomish xylophone, a goblin accordion, and, worst of all, human bagpipes. 

"Tonight's music selection will be as eclectic as our guests," Sylvanas mutters. She suspects Anduin and Liadrin are both to blame for that particular choice. 

From her place on her arm, Jaina glances around somewhat dazed. Sylvanas can feel much more of her arm against her skin, and is almost certain she's running a low-grade fever. She needs to eat and hydrate and rest, though the latter wouldn't be possible for several more tortuous hours.

"Oh no, bagpipes," she mutters. "Tandred and Derek like to drink too much and play."

Sylvanas recalls the shriveled, horrified mess of a man rasping broken Gutterspeak after she raised him from the depths. It is difficult for her to imagine Derek as playful and hearty as his siblings, or at least as vibrant as the youngest Proudmoore, who seems to lack all of Jaina's sense of decorum. She pushes the thought away, annoyed that even the fox's lively spirit leaves her prone to emotional distractions. 

"Are they any good?" 

"Gods, no," Jaina almost laughs. The gaggle of photographers keeps a mindful distance, but nine of every ten lenses follow them religiously. "They've never touched the instrument sober and what they do to it while intoxicated is a crime against all decent people." 

"Then I shall be spared," Sylvanas says wryly. 

"I think you are either over-selling your lack of decency or under-buying the damage that will be done to your eardrums." She dryly adds, "I would rather hear you wail again."

Sylvanas guides them to the private quarters near the stern where they will have their official portrait done, first taken by a photographer, then commissioned by a painter. Someone, probably Alina, was wise enough to realize that them sitting seven hours for a full portrait session was both cruel and unusual punishment, and a threat to the peace itself.

They pass through the reception hall, far from a lavish, formal banquet-- that was something they both agreed upon: thrifty expenditures, a sensible dinner service, nothing extravagant-- but she is pleased with the look of it. The ship itself is visually interesting, and she finds small details in the craftsmanship catching her interest now that she's better versed in the nuances of the Kul Tiran navy. Jaina's flagship is magnificent, powerful, understated.

While Sylvanas would have never picked it for her wedding venue, not that such trivial things even warranted her notice anymore, it served its purpose nobly. She and Jaina would honor this historic moment for what it is worth, but wouldn't shame their taste or propriety by wasting coin better spent on their peoples. She recalls that the Reparations Council will meet soon, and she must speak to the Horde delegates. She has a list of priorities to pursue.

As they enter the photography suite where a high backed chair rests atop a lush purple carpet, Jaina says, "For our gifts, I think it would be best to open them later, when there are fewer people around."

The room is largely empty except for the chair and a table with two boxes atop it, the smaller of the two the wedding gift she personally selected for Jaina. She hopes it means nothing that the box Jaina got for her is significantly larger, but does not question it aloud. Instead, she says, "Very well."

Kor'kron guards are posted outside the open door, but they are otherwise alone with a Gnomish photographer, apparently recommended by the High Tinker himself, who has no issue telling either of them where to stand. He has Sylvanas seated, then Jaina seated, then both of them standing at a variety of angles, swaying with the rocking ship. Sylvanas pointedly looks away from Jaina, who does the same in return, and listens as the piano plays down the hall. Neither of them smile, and the photographer doesn't bother to ask them to.

She feels no small measure of gratitude that Jaina didn't flinch from her, neither during the Fisherman's Knot, nor the il'amaren, nor when she smoothed down the stray feather on her arm. Others would have, others _had_ , and Sylvanas did not feel particularly equipped to have the ruined flesh of her monstrous body laid bare on the world's stage as the woman she married cringed in disgust, political marriage or not. She berates herself for not being more prepared for Jaina to recoil.

_But she didn't_ , Sylvanas thinks.

She recalls the way Jaina practically fell into her when they kissed, her cheeks flushing bright with embarrassment after they parted. She was warm and forceful and her blue eyes clearly had something to prove, but at least she didn't flinch: she could maintain the illusion of comfort in her new role, as promised.

And then a second thought surfaces, ugly and contemptible, a splinter beneath her skin: her contact with Jaina is the longest she's been touched by another since she died. There was a moment when she leaned into it, the release of having met another's lips, warm and comfortable and intimate, the only time she felt those sensations-

"You can't let her wear that for the official portrait," drawls a voice from behind the photographer.

Sylvanas hunches, positioning herself between Jaina and the door, face twisted with displeasure. She'd been distracted, damnably distracted, and if there had been a true threat she'd have gotten them both killed with her inattention. But instead she sees Rommath pouting against the doorframe, his shiny black hair loose down his back, and she scoffs at his dramatic interruption. Beads and baubles decorate his fingers and wrists, and he is somehow more garishly adorned than either of the brides.

He continues, "Liadrin will have a conniption."

The photographer frowns, "Sir, this is a closed photoshoot!"

Rommath enters, a permanent sway to his hips, and says, "Then close the door."

The photographer blusters and flushes, but says nothing more.

"Rommath, don't you have someone else to pester?" asks Sylvanas. "Lor'themar, for example."

"I'm taking it off, Grand Magister," says Jaina flatly as she unlatches the Cape. Sylvanas holds up a hand to still her, and is surprised to see her stop.

"At least one of you has a modicum of sense," he says, readjusting a jade ring on his little finger.

Jaina clears her throat and lowers her voice, addressing only Sylvanas, "It kept me warm and served its purpose. The Cape belongs to you."

She looks small in only her wedding dress, the lace intricate and tight. As Jaina turns to remove the Cape, Sylvanas notices that her smooth back is almost completely bare, a plunging window down her spine, and she scowls. _No wonder she was freezing._

"Technically," Rommath adds unhelpfully, "it belongs to Halduron Brightwing."

"Get out, you absolute nuisance," Sylvanas shoos him away, wondering how much of her irritation is suppressed by the laughing fox in her system. For the first time in many months she finds his irreverence amusing, and he seems to take stock of this fact.

Jaina returns the Swan Feather Cape to Sylvanas with a quiet word of gratitude, and Rommath appraises them both one final time. Sylvanas latches the Cape over her back, slinging it off of the left side of the chair before she sits. Jaina stands closer behind her, her fingers resting atop the white feathers, as if moving forward to help push Rommath out. The camera clicks constantly as they move into position.

"You look like a goose," Rommath mutters petulantly, spinning on his heel.

In spite of herself, Sylvanas smirks, and Jaina chuckles over her right shoulder. The shutter clicks and Jaina says, "That may be the first time I've been in the Grand Magister's presence without him expressing an explicit desire to end my life."

"What progress," says Sylvanas. "We've moved on from murder to petty insults."

Jaina idly removes a trapped strand of Sylvanas' hair from beneath the Swan Feather Cape, resting it on her collarbone, a minor readjustment for the photo. Sylvanas freezes at the motion, doing her best to ignore the casual brush of Jaina's hand and the sensation of her fingers sliding against the back of her neck.

"I'll take the insults over the threat of bodily harm any day," Jaina idly says. Her hand returns to its place on Sylvanas' shoulder without a second thought, as if she didn't notice its brief departure at all.

_Perhaps she didn't_ , Sylvanas considers for only a moment before the thought morphs into bitter suspicion. _Or perhaps she did. We're being photographed. Rommath is just outside._

The photographer says, "Well, I for one disagree with his assessment, but that certainly did the trick. I've got what I need and think you shall be quite pleased!" He nods, "Warchief, Lord Admiral."

Sylvanas rises immediately, extending her arm to catch Jaina's hand as it falls away from her shoulder. She says, "Good. It's time we return upstairs to supervise. We may have a riot to quell."

Jaina tilts her head to the music wafting through the door. "It sounds less like a riot and more like Dath'Remar's Sonata No. 4 in D Minor."

"Hmm. I've had quite enough of dreary funeral music."

"It isn't dreary: it's a classic," Jaina scowls. "It's pensive."

" _Pensive_ ," repeats Sylvanas as they reemerge in the reception room. "Exactly the tone a wedding should strive to achieve."

"You won't be so critical of Sonata No. 4 when the bagpipes start. Mark my words."

"Consider them marked," Sylvanas says, pulling out a chair at the head table for Jaina before taking her own seat.

Their table is small enough to only seat the two brides, and is filled with food and drink solely for Jaina's benefit. "Eat," says Sylvanas. "No doubt they're waiting for you to start." Jaina coughs lightly, but obeys, demurely tucking into some white fish and arugula.

A lowball glass of Red Sands 190 sits before Sylvanas, the only item besides a glass of water on her end of the table, and she spies Nathanos nod his head as she reaches for the tumbler. She could always count on her Ranger Lord to provide for her, his gross sentimentality aside. She hadn't seen him weep so hard since his last hunting hound died in Silvermoon.

The people mill about in discrete clusters, some stockpiling bite-sized appetizers as others loiter near the bars. Most eyes in the room glance up to Sylvanas and Jaina at least once, their sense of morbid curiosity as piqued as ever. There is, as of yet, no blood on the dance floor or screamed curses over the music. Sylvanas' ears perk up, pleased with the current turn of events, barring the literal bombing in Ironforge and Tyrande's hellish eclipse in Thunder Bluff. 

She smirks, feeling tickled by her own fatalism, and lifts the glass of Red Sands to her lips. Her sense of humor always was dark as pitch.

Anduin appears to be holding court most graciously with Gelbin, Thrall, and assorted dwarves, and Thalyssra mingles with Khadgar and Vereesa, though her little sister keeps sneaking glances at the front table, perhaps to catch another glimpse of the elusive sapphire necklace. Alleria remains in the back of the room, as if cowering, half-shielded by Shandris Feathermoon, like she cannot bear to look at the young man beside them. She squints and offers him a pained, forced smile.

The blonde boy turns and Sylvanas softly gasps, her fingers violently clutching the glass in her hand.

_Lirath?_

The half-elf boy, more a strapping young man, so greatly resembles her youngest brother and father that a pit grows in her stomach, deep and longing for their bright blonde hair, their shining smiles, and it takes her the span of several missing heartbeats to realize that she looks upon the face of her eldest nephew, Arator. She had only to place a guitar or pipes or a lute in his hands and set him on a balcony in the Spire, and he would belong there far more than she ever would, whether or not he chose the Windrunner name for himself.

Sylvanas sets down her glass, bitterly wishing she hadn't noticed him. He is built sturdier than Lirath, perhaps the human influence on his frame, and his broad shoulders resemble his long-dead uncles, Aithlin and Seldor. Vereesa and Alleria never spoke of their sons, nor Liadrin her daughter, and she feels an acerbic sense of logic that they do not want to introduce her to their families. Her rot does not belong where things are meant to thrive.

Jaina silently follows her gaze across the room. Her blue eyes observe Arator in a new light, as if seeing him for the first time, and Sylvanas cannot help but wonder if Jaina shares her sudden recognition of the uncanny resemblance. She saw the portraits in the Spire. She has undoubtedly memorized the faces of Sylvanas' long-dead family.

She daintily sets down her fork and asks, "Have you ever met your nephew?"

_He has never known me alive._

"No," says Sylvanas.

"Would you like me to introduce you?"

The sentiment stings. That she would need an outsider, a human unrelated to her own family, to introduce her blood kin is shameful. Her sisters would have introduced their children if they wished it done. Even Liadrin only presented her ward when she had no choice.

"No."

"I suppose Arator is now kin to me too." Jaina sips at a flute of champagne, the Archmage's Diadem reflecting the glow of the magical lights below deck. Mercifully, she shifts the subject, "How does it feel being related to the Proudmoores?"

Sylvanas blinks. "Your mother is the only redeemable member of your family."

Jaina offers a small laugh, retrieving her fork and knife. "I'm inclined to agree," she says. "You know Tandred let slip to me that it would be a particularly cunning plot for you to poison our meal tonight." She pops a cherry tomato into her mouth, covering her lips with the back of her hand as she chews, "Raise us all for your undead army. That sort of thing."

_This again_. Sylvanas suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. She doesn't miss that this is some attempt at joking, and that the Lord Admiral appears to be in particularly affable mood, likely equally relieved that the wedding ceremony is finished. There is a strangeness to her familiarity, even if it only exists for the sake of posturing, when it is set against the backdrop of all the world's leaders mingling or haughtily ignoring one another.

The death toll of the guests on this ship is astronomical. They have more blood on their hands than there is water in Orgrimmar Harbor.

"I thought it quite effective," Sylvanas peels her eyes back to the crowd. "How does it taste, the arsenic?"

"Zesty," says Jaina.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh, idly watching as Jaina continues her meal in silence. She leans on the armrest of her chair, her glass heavy in her hand, and contains a wince at the mottled yellow bruise peeking out from beneath Jaina's lacy gown. It stains the pale skin of her shoulder, obviously unhealed from where she grabbed her yesterday, and Sylvanas ruefully lowers her eyes. She would never undo her mistakes, or the marks she left behind on others.

_I should have insisted Liadrin heal her before the ceremony, or Anduin._

Part of her is shocked that neither of them noticed the bruise, or questioned her directly for the damage done to Jaina's body. She would always be the prime suspect, particularly now that they were officially wed, and often in each other's company.

Jaina, for her part, seems wholly unbothered by her injury, coughing lightly into her napkin. She had withstood a banshee's wail at point-blank range, her nose pouring blood, eyes blinking away their glossy daze. She'd fallen against Sylvanas for only a second, much like their kiss, before regaining her senses and standing on her own. Weaker warriors had died from less.

She didn't enjoy seeing Jaina's blood, or smelling it for that matter, not because it was unpleasant, but quite the opposite: infused with her magic and some unidentifiable underlying scent mixed with fig and hyacinth. Though she once thought the scent was the brine of the ocean, she can smell the saltwater quite clearly from the _Admiral's Pride_ , and rules it out. But how clearly she could taste the mysterious flavor in her mouth when Jaina fell against her at the Spire, even over the acrid, fetid smell of the Scourge. 

_At least she is somewhat resilient, if not quite healthy. I could have done worse for myself than Jaina Lenore Proudmoore_ , she thinks, raising her glass to her lips. _Particularly now. But Lenore. What a geriatric middle name._ She would save that particular barb for a special occasion.

In Quel'thalas before the Scourge, she herself was a commodity long sought-after by the vast majority of the population, a notion that always suited her vanity nicely. She never lacked for suitors, though very few of the women she courted were marriageable; or at least, they'd have enjoyed that, but she had only wavering interest in most of them. Sylvanas was fickle before she died, too stubborn and hyper-focused on her work to settle down on any one woman.

Her father used to give her grief about it, laughing in his study in the evenings, lamenting his wayward daughter and her capriciousness. She always tolerated his prodding because she knew from whence her mercurial nature came: her mother had silver hair, but her father had a quicksilver heart. It took a special woman to hold him steady while she kept him free.

Perhaps it is better she no longer has those concerns, and the issue of her marriage has been sorted under the Unification Treatise. Jaina Proudmoore is a formidable woman, a powerful mage, well-respected within her faction. She would be an asset to the Horde as well. If nothing else, she had willingly participated in the il'amaren despite her nervous discomfort, and had recovered quickly, which was more than Sylvanas assumed she would receive from the unfortunate soul bound to her in marriage.

"They're going to want us to dance soon," says Jaina, as one hand toys with her anchor pendant. Sylvanas should have offered to polish it like she polished her own necklace. "To really get the party started."

"Who would come here with the expectation of dancing?" Sylvanas downs her drink. 

"Perhaps you should ask your Champion," says Jaina. She points beneath the table where the press cannot see her hands toward Nathanos, who lingers near Delaryn and Ly'leth Lunastre, looking like a squat mule between two elegant show horses, bouncing on his toes in a poor attempt to match the rhythm of the music. 

"He's a dreadful dancer," Sylvanas' lips quirk. "How lucky for you that I am not."

"Lucky indeed. I'm afraid mother will have to deal with him during the Peer dance." Jaina sighs, "And then I shall when she inevitably wants to trade me for her turn with you." 

"I look forward to it," says Sylvanas. "Dancing with your mother, I mean." 

Jaina's mouth flattens, "I took your intent prior to the clarification."

Sylvanas spares Jaina additional details, but her sharp-toothed smile remains, "You've nothing to worry about with Nathanos. You can abandon him and he'll dance on his own. In fact, once he starts you will have a terrible time getting him to stop." 

"Well that's a hurdle to jump later tonight," says Jaina, ticking on her fingers, "after the bouquet toss, the first dance, the general mingling, the fireworks-"

"I thought we agreed upon no extraneous expenses," Sylvanas frowns.

"They'll be magical. Khadgar insisted." She quotes him with a lofty tilt of her chin, "'We cannot break with the highest tradition of an Archmage's marriage.' And Modera only egged him on, 'The people are here for a show, let us not disappoint them!'"

"The Alliance with their pomp and circumstance," Sylvanas scoffs.

Jaina raises an eyebrow, "I believe this particular proclivity extends beyond faction lines. It seems all of us magic users have a penchant for ostentatious showmanship. Your own mages have offered their contributions in your name, the First Arcanist and Grand Magister among them."

"Of course they did."

Jaina finishes a sip of her water, staring at Sylvanas until she reluctantly mimics her, drinking from her own glass. Then her blue eyes peer out over the crowd, most of them finishing their meals and moving on to post-dinner cocktails. She says, "Anduin is looking at me most pointedly. I believe it's time to throw the bouquets."

"I would rather throw myself from the ship."

"Yes, we have established that," says Jaina, rising to her feet. "Bouquet toss first."

So they rise with their white roses in hand, and approach the dance floor.

* * *

Taelia had glanced across the aisle during the ceremony, which was a mistake in and of itself, and saw Anya Eversong crying again, sandwiched between her sisters, all weeping just as hard. Taelia broke in that moment, borrowing a handkerchief from Lucille, and thought, _It must be so exhausting to cry twice in one day, even under happier circumstances._

She looked back again and this time Anya caught her, her red eyes dripping with tears but softly smiling, and Taelia could not help the rush of pride and heat that filled her chest. Anya trusted her, and she could think of no higher honor. Their gaze broke sheepishly, Anya's platinum hair hiding half of her face, and Taelia rearranging her floral green dress.

But now, as they linger around Katherine Proudmoore and the bar full of spirits, she reflects on her own comfort level and realizes with another happy glance at Anya that her opinion of the Dark Rangers has come a long way from their first meeting in Proudmoore Keep. She tipsily supposes that being stripped half-naked and admired will do that to a person. Or the shot they took earlier. Or the beer she's been drinking. Taelia squints; she should probably eat more food. Beside her, Nathanos Blightcaller orders another drink and then drifts away into the crowd, his scowl slipping despite his best efforts.

"Can't taste it," says Marrah, sipping whatever sugary, pink concoction Lucille ordered. "Needs more sugar."

She lifts the coupe to Cyndia's lips, who also shakes her head, "Nothing."

Lucille raises her eyebrows, surrounded by a pack of soldiers yet again. "I'm shocked! It's so strong to me." She turns to Alina, reaching for her glass, "What do you have again?"

"No, no, you do not want this!" says Alina, one hand bracing Lucille's hip, the arm holding her tumbler outstretched as far as she can without toppling from her stool. "Red Sands is straight grain alcohol. Forsaken palates only."

Lucille immediately withdraws her hand, literally clutching her pearls. Alina rests a palm on her arm and adds, "Stick with your Azsuna Unicorn. I'd much rather have fun options for my cocktail parties, but we've really only got... Red Sands."

"That's a shame," Lucille says, scooting closer to Alina's barstool, "Variety is the spice of life. Have they cornered the market, or no one else is distilling to your needs?"

"Largely the latter, I suspect," Cyndia chimes in, impishly glancing between the two of them.

Cyndia herself looks very sweet in her black dress with Marrah's arm around her waist, chatting amiably about little topics like friends would. Taelia smiles at them and at Katherine, who always shines in social situations, and feels it's all quite nice that things are going well and no one is misbehaving, and Jaina and Sylvanas looked very lovely, especially when they kissed, which Taelia had to admit she blushed far harder than either of the brides about.

Taelia turns to remark on all this to Anya, but finds she's lost her somehow. She spins in a small circle, eyebrows furrowed, until Katherine catches her eye and subtly points toward a table lined with food. Anya piles a plate high with charcuterie and crackers and small cakes, each selected after a discerning review. The caterers, all human, stare at her in uneasy surprise, having never seen one of the Forsaken peruse their wares.

When there is no room for more left on the plate, Anya returns. She says, "I thought you might still be hungry."

Taelia moves to set her beer on the bar, her gratitude and hunger plain on her face, when Katherine stops her with a hand on her shoulder. "It's time for the bouquet toss, dear. I suggest you join the ranks."

Anya shrugs beside her, "I can hold the plate so you can eat, and you can keep your beer."

Taelia feels her lips part, her heart touched by Anya's natural selflessness, and she thinks most earnestly, _Marry me already,_ before the weight of self-consciousness holds her tongue and drags her back to earth. Instead she shakily says, "Thank you," and Anya smiles up at her with perked ears and soft pink lips and shiny red eyes.

The others at the bar quickly look away when Taelia glances back their way, Marrah with some complaint about a lack of garter-tossing.

"Shall we?" Anya asks, and Taelia obliges, popping a square of sharp, peppery cheese into her mouth.

She can say one good thing about the peace already: the food selection is far more interesting. Kalimdor's regional cuisine is a world unto itself. "I quite like this pilsner," she says. "Orcish, I think."

"Orgrimmar is full of breweries," says Anya, hoisting the plate overhead to avoid a collision with a Nightborne woman. "Be careful with their beers though, I hear they're all quite powerful."

The music shifts up-tempo and the dancefloor crowds with eligible bachelors and bachelorettes. Tandred Proudmoore clinks Taelia's beer glass in a passing toast, his own eyes glossy with drink, and sidles up beside Halduron Brightwing with a cocky, lopsided grin. The Ranger-General glances back without amusement to a table full of elegant blood elves, each of them smirking worse than the last at his new hanger-on.

"Hey," says Tess Greymane, appearing abruptly by Taelia's left side, apparently unbothered that her suit shirt is unbuttoned perilously low.

Tess stares at Anya in some quiet recognition-- apparently all spies know each other-- but maintains a dispassionate expression, an echo of Genn's mistrust of Sylvanas, his hatred of what the Horde did to Teldrassil. She thinks, _Tess and Lorna have a kaldorei ward now, Finel. She's just a little baby._ Anya does not respond at all to Tess' hard gaze.

Lorna Crowley stands beside her girlfriend, their fingers interlaced, her red dress a perfect match to the flower in her hair. She offers friendly greetings to everyone around them, including a tall blue troll who waves at Anya. She waves back as best she can with a plate in her hands.

While Taelia is no makeup expert, she thinks the shock of pink lipstick smeared across Tess' mouth looks as if she wiped it on a tablecloth immediately following application.

"Hey to you," says Taelia, swallowing a grape. "Your lipstick is smudged."

"I'm not wearing lipstick," says Tess, dragging the back of her hand against her mouth. Lorna looks away sheepishly, wiping the outline of her lips with her thumb.

"Oh," says Taelia stupidly, her permanent blush returning, reaching for another bit of food to mask her embarrassment.

But Anya laughs, and the euphoric sound bubbles up such a warmth in Taelia's chest, even stronger than holding her when she cried that morning, even prouder than knowing she trusted her with secrets she didn't share with others, that she's quite certain her heart might explode.

The music grows softer as Anduin and Liadrin speak-- Taelia is staring at Anya and is absolutely not capable of focusing on anything outside the sound of her own pulse, and how close Anya is standing to her face, amused and beautiful and like maybe she wants to kiss her again-- and then the brides toss their bouquets.

The flowers hang midair for only a moment and, in that time, Taelia processes two thoughts: the first is that her hands are full of bite-sized cheese cubes and orcish pilsner, and the second is that a cluster of white roses, the set Sylvanas threw, is going to slap her directly in the face.

"Ah," she chokes out.

Just before impact, in a blur of dark movement, Anya balances the plate of food in one hand and snatches the bouquet from the air in the other, white petals dangling directly over Taelia's forehead. They stand nose to nose, Taelia's heart pounding in her ears, the plate between them and the flowers overhead. Anya lowers her arm and looks away, offering what could almost be a nervous giggle if it came from any other source.

"Nice catch," says Taelia softly.

"Thank you," Anya breathes.

Beside them, Tess indelicately clutches the second bouquet, apparently the one Jaina threw, ignoring the groans of disappointment and shouts of excitement around her. "Well," she says to Lorna, "I guess now we have to."

"As if we weren't already," Lorna grabs her cheeks and kisses her as chastely as those two ever do, and Tandred wolf-whistles very loudly beside Halduron Brightwing's ear, the Ranger-General looking more and more like he wishes he'd never left the forests of Quel'thalas. When Tess drops Lorna into a flamboyant low dip, deepening their kiss, even Taelia doesn't miss the way Genn rolls his eyes. But the chorus of whistling and cheering increases tenfold, Marrah's voice blending with the rest.

The crowd claps, fizzling out, and begins to disperse from the dance floor in little clusters. Jaina and Sylvanas move to the center of the room as the musicians strike up a new song, some dreary classical number that Taelia certainly doesn't recognize, so she gestures to an empty table and says, "Would you like to watch their dance?"

Anya sets down the plate but thoughtfully holds the bouquet, the pale flowers vivid against her lavender skin.

"I was thinking we could find someplace quieter," Anya gently says, taking the beer out of Taelia's grasp, "where you could smudge my lipstick."

Taelia feels herself grinning, giddy and full, and says, "Considering how you saved me, I think that's the least I can do."

She laces her fingers with Anya's, guiding them away from the reception. The heavy door to the Lord Admiral's cabin barely closes behind them before she pulls Anya's body against her own and makes good on her promise, smiles on both of their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know all those stories about the Olympics where the athletes are these young, super fit, hyper-focused people in their prime who've never been allowed to cut loose before, so everyone just goes buck fuckin wild the first chance they get? I think about that a lot.
> 
> EDIT: Y'all!!!! Look at this incredible [Wedding Portrait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858957) fanart by [DinosaurUnicorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/pseuds/DinosaurUnicorns)! I'm absolutely in love!


	28. Alleria, Valeera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remind me to never write another group scene again. Valeera/Vereesa, Lilian/Liadrin, Tandred/Taelia, Arator/Anduin/Anya/Alina/Alleria. GOD.

Alleria stands near the stern of the _Admiral's Pride_ , uncomfortable in her green dress. While the long-sleeved velvet covers her bruises, it is a far cry from Shandris' soft clothes in Lor'danel. She peers out an easterly porthole, her eyes flicking across the water, drawn to the waves and the strange energy beneath them, a manic agitation like a kicked beehive. She sees nothing beyond the perimeter guards at attention on their sloops, but wonders if the arcanists' protective barriers are powerful enough to draw her focus and cause the pressure creeping up her spine.

The icy sensation reminds her of yesterday when a wave of nausea struck her at lunch, and she grimaced toward Teldrassil on impulse. Shandris watched her with concern as she blinked away her dizziness. She reassured her it was merely stress, worry at Sylvanas' response to her letter, and they were both satisfied with the knowledge that this physical strain was the sort of illness that might haunt them for the rest of their days. Alleria's body couldn't quite heal, and Shandris sometimes whispered for her mother in her sleep.

_At least I don't hear that awful voice so often._ She looks back to the dance floor where Jaina and Sylvanas take their positions, gracefully stepping up to face each other. The Swan Feather Cape hangs behind Sylvanas' chair, far too ungainly a garment to be worn for anything but the wedding ceremony itself.

Alleria half-squints as she watches them: Anduin and Arator sit at a table nearby, and Liadrin stands with her arms crossed, perusing the crowd with a stern expression. Their combined Light is enough for her eyes to water, even at this distance. They burn like hot embers behind her irises.

Beside her, Shandris is occupied with a petite, exquisitely dressed Nightborne woman, some noble whose name Alleria failed to catch, and a looming, undead night elf who can only be Delaryn Summermoon. She wears a cerulean dress, not black like the other Dark Rangers, and hunches behind the Nightborne protectively, her pale eyes gliding across the room, lingering on a table full of goblins.

The string quartet strikes up a waltz, Cressina's Opus #4 if memory serves, tastefully underscored by elven horns. Much like her ability with the bow, Sylvanas has lost none of her dexterity on the dancefloor. Her posture is impeccable and the strong muscles of her back, though discolored by undeath, are plainly visible above the top of their mother's wedding dress. Somehow Sylvanas looks healthier, fuller cheeked, her lips quirking as if she wishes to smile, but actively disallows it.

She cannot reconcile how Lady Moon with her compassion and heroism could burn Shandris' home, even in the throes of war. It is as if the Lich King unmade Sylvanas, and what reformed in her place held only a fragment of her valor.

But now she dances like the celebrity she used to be, effortless and dashing. Sylvanas used to enjoy dancing in Silvermoon; they all did, even Liadrin, who insisted she had two left feet.

Alleria catches only one misstep in which Sylvanas needs to shorten her long stride for Jaina, who smoothly compensates with a quick spin on the ball of her foot. It appears the Lord Admiral is no stranger to waltzing either, and Alleria smiles faintly. She should have expected nothing less from Jaina Proudmoore.

"Are you all right, Delaryn?" Shandris asks softly, and Alleria turns back to her at once. Her voice is laced with fear and concern, and the hollow uncertainty of not being able to convey exactly what she means. Alleria takes her arm, pressing their bodies closer, and doesn't care who sees her, least of all Anduin's pet rogue, Valeera, who seemed incapable of staring at them with anything but inappropriate curiosity during the ceremony. The blonde still wanders the reception room with her drink in hand, green eyes hunting for something, dwelling on the blood elves, intrigue plain on her face. Shandris mindlessly blankets Alleria's hand with her own, and the Nightborne woman with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones certainly does not miss the connection.

"I am well, Sentinel-General," Delaryn says dreamily. "Thank you for asking."

Shandris takes a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting against Alleria's. "We miss you, Delaryn. You can always return to Lor'danel."

Delaryn tilts her head, her face empty, "No, Elune is gone from that place."

Shandris tenses, but before can question Delaryn, the Nightborne woman speaks in a smooth voice, "Delaryn has served most nobly as my honor guard in Orgrimmar. I would be most disappointed to lose her."

"I am sworn to Lady Lunastre by the right of serrar bandi," Delaryn adds.

The people around them clap as the first dance ends, but Alleria swallows thickly, hardly noticing that the song changed.

Delaryn's statement is no light admission, but a lifelong oath of fealty to act as Lunastre's Blade Keeper, her guardian blessed by the ancients. Alleria has never actually known someone to take the oath, so great was its binding responsibility. She could hardly fathom this Nightborne asking for Delaryn's pledge at all, short of them having known one another for millennia prior to Suramar's separation. Delaryn is certainly too young for that to be true, despite being centuries older than Alleria.

It was said that, even in the oldest days of the kaldorei, Tyrande Whisperwind refused to accept a serrar bandi from her warriors; for, if she died, they would be honor-bound to join her. A dark portion of Alleria's mind thinks, _Technically, Delaryn has an excuse since she's already died once._

"Delaryn, that's," Shandris glances between the two of them, but they meet her gaze without shame or hesitation. "Wonderful," she chokes out.

"Thank you," she says. "I have been eating again, and have had fewer hallucinations."

Alleria feels her breath catch at her matter-of-factly tone, and the openness with which she said it frightens her. She'd long known of the trauma of being raised, another issue she took with her younger sister. How cruel to return these broken creatures to existence. There were rumors that Sylvanas' Val'kyr offered them each a choice, but Alleria couldn't verify that claim, and now was certainly not the time to press for more. She wasn't certain Delaryn would remember it clearly either way.

She glances back to her sister, now dancing with the uncoordinated Nathanos Blightcaller and putting him to great shame, attempting to dance half as well as Jaina does with her mother. The Proudmoores smile as they dance, Katherine a touch red-cheeked, but Nathanos openly laughs as Sylvanas struggles to lead him. He has apparently been waiting to express himself since the music first began.

"Speaking of eating," Lady Lunastre says with a polite smile, "forgive my interruption, but I am quite hungry and wish to sit. I am not so strong as you famed heroes. It was lovely speaking with you. Come, Delaryn."

She shows no indication of embarrassment at Delaryn's words, her face impressively emotionless, but nods in farewell to each of them, her snowy white hair falling delicately across her shoulders. Delaryn follows her lead, her tall form bowing deeply, a small smile on her dreamy face. They return to the table where the High Arcanist sits with her retinue, a plate full of food ready for each of them. Alleria notes that Lady Lunastre touches nothing, but watches in expectant silence as Delaryn eats.

"I was not," Shandris begins, biting at her lip, "prepared for that conversation."

"You handled it well," Alleria says.

She sees Shandris' furrowed brow, thinking how desperately she wants to kiss her again, how it might cure all their ills and the cold agitation that still buzzes beneath her skin. But before she expresses that thought the music changes again, and the ship is silent for a few moments as a new band takes the stage. Humans file onward with their brassy horns and drums, tuning their instruments with gusto. Already they sound less elegant and more lively than their elven counterparts.

Shandris closes the space between them the way she has hundreds of times in their tent, one hand on Alleria's waist, her blue eyes smiling tenderly. Suddenly she looks up and inhales sharply, stepping back a pace with a guilty expression. Alleria follows her gaze to where Vereesa loiters nearby in her silver gown, a champagne glass in her hand, obviously trying to catch her attention.

"I'm not hiding us from Vereesa," Alleria reassures her. "I'm not hiding from anyone."

"Are you sure? I don't want to make this more difficult for you."

Alleria runs her hand down the firm muscles of Shandris' arm, relishing the warmth of her, the softness of her skin beneath her fingertips. There was a time when Alleria believed she would never be touched again, never held safe in another's arms, and she feels awash with gratitude for Shandris teaching her otherwise with the patience and steady devotion of a woman who knew she was worth it.

"I'm absolutely sure," Alleria murmurs, sliding their palms together. "You have only ever made things easier."

At this Shandris smiles fully, her trepidation washed away. She turns back to Vereesa and says, "You look lovely today, Lady Windrunner." 

Vereesa, who has never been one for subtlety, stares directly at their hands for a moment as if performing a particularly taxing math equation before she responds, "As do you, Lady Feathermoon." She adds, "Your dress is very nice, Alleria."

"Yours too," Alleria replies. She has much to say to her sisters, centuries of hopes and fears and questions with no resolutions, but instead she stands stiffly, an overfilled bucket, sloshing unspoken words like water on the oak floorboards of Jaina's warship.

"I should introduce myself to the Regent Lord before the Peer dance. We've yet to speak since Dalaran," says Shandris regretfully. "How was your meeting with the First Arcanist? I've heard she's quite reasonable."

Vereesa's eyes widen as if caught off-guard by the question; she offers instead her ever-present delay, sometimes thoughtful, usually distracted. She has not been the same since Rhonin died.

Alleria recalls her vibrancy growing up, her love of learning and talking, and how she and Sylvanas taught Vereesa to shoot like Aithlin and Seldor taught her. Little Moon could ramble on about any number of subjects with brief interjections by Liadrin, and she and Sylvanas would sit and nod their heads and say "yes those spiky fruits are very strange and fascinating" and "I would love to see you do a one-handed cartwheel".

But that Vereesa is every bit as gone as Sylvanas. Every sentence feels like picking at a scab, and Vereesa's eyes are vacant like their mother's used to be. She thought at first that this was the burden of the Ranger-General, but now she realizes the issue is their bloodline, battered and thin. 

There is a flash of something Alleria does not expect on her sister's visage, something contrary to what she has lately known of her. Tonight she sips champagne, and bears the smallest smile that doesn't drop away. 

"Very," she says, her glass pressed to her lips. "Accommodating too. It's going well."

Alleria searches her youngest sister's face, noting the faint redness of her cheeks. _Certainly she hasn't had too much to drink already. She probably embarrassed herself in front of Thalyssra Eles._

"I'll leave you to it," Shandris says, squeezing her hand. She offers them a smile before approaching the table of blood elves, her gait powerful and leisurely. To Alleria's relief, Lor'themar Theron politely rises to greet her, and offers her a seat beside him. To an outside observer they could pass as coworkers, if not casual friends.

_Is this all the peace has ever required? Sharing simple pleasantries and a dinner table with the Horde?_

At the front of the room Sylvanas and Jaina sit at their table, elegant in their white dresses. They chat quietly with each other, putting on a good show for the press and public, affectionless but cordial.

Vereesa sidles closer to her, eyes trained on Sylvanas. They glance at one another, saying nothing, before falling in step toward her table. Sylvanas rises to meet them without comment or greeting, and strides to the stairs of the ship's upper deck without verifying that they follow. Jaina smiles at them briefly as they pass, but has the presence of mind to know that she is not the target of their attention.

Alleria hears the shutter-click of cameras as they walk, the infamous Windrunners sisters reunited peacefully in the public's eye-- and perhaps that is the truth of it, for they fought at the Spire, all screams and insults and abandoned necklaces-- for the first time since the Scourge.

Her brow creases and she thinks for a moment that the cluster of photographers will follow them above deck, ruining any chance of an honest conversation, but Genn Greymane and Varok Saurfang, who wear matching scowls, share a love of bullying journalists that suits her desires perfectly.

"Away, vermin," says Greymane to a dwarf with a press badge.

"Find another hole in which to burrow," Saurfang rumbles.

They pointedly ignore the Windrunners as they pass in some sort of stalemate or truce, instead corralling the press with growls and name-calling. "Pests, all of them," Alleria hears Greymane mutter before they disappear upstairs.

The night sky glimmers with stars, its reflection dancing on the waves of the harbor. Orgrimmar shines brightly to the west, electric lampposts mingling with the lanterns lining the docks. The citizens of the Horde celebrate from a distance, a subdued, relaxed party, but a party nonetheless. Alleria suspects that no one is celebrating on the Vindicaar.

She notes with a frown that the security detail on the shore is lacking. She would have handled that differently. Alleria folds her arms across her chest, goosebumps prickling in the cold, and watches as Vereesa does the same. They take their places on either side of Sylvanas as she stands at the eastern railing, apparently unbothered by the icy winter air.

Vereesa speaks first in a soft voice, "Mother's dress suits you."

Sylvanas clenches her jaw and says nothing, as if uncertain of whether or not to believe her.

"The rooftop forces are sparse," Alleria says.

"Mmm," Sylvanas hums noncommittally.

Vereesa frowns, "Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they aren't there."

"Mmm," says Alleria.

"The contingent of arcanists to the south could be better dispersed," Sylvanas admits.

"Mmm," says Vereesa, sipping her champagne.

"I would keep the arcanists where they are," Alleria raises her chin. "It defeats the purpose of the cavalry to dilute their ranks with mages."

Sylvanas and Vereesa grunt simultaneously, disagreeing with her. Their ears twitch, surprised to have taken the same side.

Having been outvoted by her sisters, Alleria changes the subject, "Nathanos is most ungainly."

"He's always been an abysmal dancer," Vereesa agrees.

"Yes, well," Sylvanas crosses her arms, and they stand a matched set staring out at the open water. "Some things never change."

The Windrunners watch the boats bounce in the waves of Orgrimmar Harbor, the nighttime breeze swirling their blonde hair. A long pause lingers among them, fraught with the leftover tension from their last visit home.

_What would mother think of us now? A wraith, a wretch, and a widow._

"You retrieved your necklace," says Alleria, staring directly ahead.

"Yes," says Sylvanas.

Vereesa speaks very quietly, her eyes like a frightened rabbit's. "Did you get mine too?"

Sylvanas' face hardens as if she wants to snap and bite, and scream into their faces for leaving her yet again, for only confronting her in a situation where her hands were literally and figuratively bound. But Alleria knows her sister cannot afford to lash out here. 

Sylvanas scowls, turning her face to the front of the ship, back to the altar where she was wed, bitter and frustrated. "Yes," she says. 

Vereesa exhales a strangled sigh, her chest rising and falling heavily. 

"And mine?" Alleria breathes, forlornly searching Sylvanas' face. 

"No," Sylvanas says without looking. "I fed yours to the Scourge."

Alleria's face twists in disbelief and rage, then scrunches up into confusion. She opens her mouth, completely aghast, until Vereesa touches her arm and whispers, "She's kidding."

Sylvanas' lips tighten. "You never appreciated my sense of humor."

"You have it?" Alleria asks, unable to stop the desperation from sneaking into her voice. "You have my necklace?"

"I did," Sylvanas stares at the boats, "but then I pawned it for gold."

"Sylvanas," scowls Vereesa.

"What?" she snaps.

Alleria rears back and smacks her arm much harder than she intended, her ears canted down, and hisses, "Do you have it or not?"

"You can't punch me; it's my wedding day!" says Sylvanas, one hand poised and ready to slap Alleria back, but she leans away from her reach.

"Don't hit!" cries Vereesa, snatching at their hands, champagne spilling to the deck.

"Yes, I have them all!" Sylvanas shouts. She slaps at Alleria's hand over Vereesa's head one more time for good measure before folding her arms. "Some of us aren't so blasé about family heirlooms."

Alleria feels a rush of shame, then red-hot anger. She could just as easily blame Sylvanas for hiding their necklaces like state secrets, for intentionally withholding them even after the war was over. But she looks at her sister's purple skin and ashen hair, her coal-dark tears the only elven marking she would ever receive, and she deflates.

Instead, she looks guiltily at the wooden deck. "I went back," she admits, "but couldn't find them. Now at least I know why."

"I wanted to go back too," says Vereesa, her face mournful but present, far more alert than Alleria has seen her in some time, "but I was afraid to go alone, and thought you wouldn't want to come with me."

Sylvanas' petulance disappears in an instant, replaced by a softness of her lips, a stoicism and contradictory sense of shared isolation. Alleria knows the look well, the regret of abandoning and being abandoned, helpless to correct wrongs done in the name of self-preservation. She feels it every time she looks at her son, his face open and kind, so unlike her own. The chasm between them lingers, no matter how dearly they wish to close the gap.

"Dark Lady, Ranger-General," a woman's voice calls from the stairwell. One of Sylvanas' original Rangers from the days of Quel'Thalas, the brunette, stares up at them. "It's time for the Peers to dance."

Sylvanas dismisses her wordlessly and moves toward the staircase. For a moment Alleria fears she will demand that she sign the peace treaty too as a ransom for her necklace, no different than Turalyon and all the guilt he heaped upon her back. But, while the diamond-hard tone of her voice returns, Sylvanas offers no ultimatums and flatly says, "You will have to come to Orgrimmar for your necklaces another time."

Vereesa releases the breath she'd been holding, the glimmer of optimism behind her eyes restored as easily as it was lost when her ruby necklace clattered to the cold stone of the Spire. Some small, hopeful part of her mind-- the same part she disparages in Vereesa-- thinks that her mother might be proud that her daughters have survived this long at all.

"Sylvanas," calls Alleria. She waits for her sister to face her, red eyes bright in the darkness. "Congratulations," she says, and she hopes she speaks it earnestly enough for Sylvanas to believe her.

Sylvanas tersely nods, the lines of her mouth taut as a bowstring, and disappears below deck. Alleria's throat constricts as she watches her sister's retreating form, an eerie echo of their parents, the sapphire necklace gleaming on her neck.

* * *

The dance floor is crowded with the leadership of Azeroth, their feet keeping time with the beat, most eyes awkwardly looking away from the partners, particularly those who opted for a second dance with their Peers like the Ranger-General and First Arcanist. Vereesa Windrunner's hand is on the small of Thalyssra Eles' back as they bashfully smile, for once not at all mechanical, and Valeera is quite certain she's never seen her hold herself with such confidence, even in Jaina's company. It is a strange, refreshing sight: the youngest Windrunner not drowning in her own grief.

Valeera glances back to where Alleria and Shandris speak to Magister Umbric, their fingers interlaced again in something far more than a companionable touch. She makes a mental note that Turalyon failed to attend the wedding at all, perhaps to avoid the agony of seeing the mother of his child on a better person's arm. She smirks at his loss, their separation easily predicted after Alleria fled from his furious pleas in Dalaran.

_Always a feast with the Windrunners and their secrets, but at least they're never dull._

Valeera watches the bodies twist and turn, some just beginning to stumble, their legs and lips loosening from drink. She smiles prettily at the swaying people, and counts all the ways she can forget the inconveniences of her week.

Her dress is the color of the Loyalist's blood, his dark red ichor eking down her forearms and under her nails. She blinks away the sound of his gurgling cries, and gulps her glass of red wine. She thinks it was something from Suramar, but forgot as soon as the pretty bartender described it. Valeera stepped away quickly, her glass in tow. The bartender was a redhead, and tonight that annoying fact simply will not do. She drains the wine in three deep gulps and goes to the other bar, the one with liquor. It's more of a Badlands Bourbon sort of evening.

There is so much to see on this ship, so many conversations to overhear, but she swore to Anduin she would remain visible, and this time she would keep her promise. This would have to be done the old-fashioned way: schmoozing. She licks her lips.

The brides are occupied by a line of guests, so she can't pester Jaina, and Anduin busies himself talking to Katherine, who still blots at her mascara. She wanders to the back of the reception room, having no interest in being around tears. Shandris and Alleria eye her warily, having shooed her away once, and whatever _that_ is, it's a real shame they won't invite her.

Floating between the tables, she finally settles on Genn and Mia Greymane. Tess and Lorna abandoned them, probably off to some broom closet, but Varok Saurfang and a gangly troll boy occupy seats across from them. She cannot decide if Genn or Varok looks more crotchety, but Mia and the troll remain courteous, comparing tasting notes on the hors d'oeuvres. 

"Good sausages," says the troll between bites.

Mia nods. "I quite like the fennel notes."

Genn mutters, "I hate fennel." Varok grunts in something like agreement, and Valeera decides to skip that group altogether.

Her green eyes flicker up to a table full of blood elves, a rare brunette with a perfect complexion and bored expression-- _Rommath_ , she thinks, recalling her notes. _The Grand Magister and Lor'themar Theron's lover._ \-- sitting beside the Regent Lord himself. Liadrin Sunthread hovers over them, one hand on the back of Halduron Brightwing's chair, chatting casually.

Valeera bristles. She doesn't have a concussion now, though the drink is making her eyes slow, delaying her ability to process the world around her. The shame of being caught and beaten so soundly, so brutally that even _Anduin_ mocked her, sinks like acid into her flesh. She recalls her bumbling Thalassian, the waterfall of Liadrin's Light in her body, the way she called her bluff and her loneliness. Liadrin hardly touched her but she still wishes she would have done something wrong, if only she could relegate the entire situation to the same corner of her mind that buries things like that so well: all the times she was used and diminished and forgotten. 

Memories from her childhood are fleeting, particularly with liquor coursing through her system, but she recalls her father's voice, playful and soft as he read her a bedtime story. The words moved on the page, slipping away from her mind, mocking and incorporeal. She hated reading because it was hard and embarrassing, and no one else struggled the way she did. She knew even then how her mother worried that she couldn't read on her own, but her father pulled her into his lap and made silly faces and voices until she learned to love her books again at her own pace, in her own way.

But her father did not have a silly face when bandits ran a spear through his spine. Valeera slipped into their small barn and the horses thundered past her at a gallop, but the rest of the memory is a haze of flames and shrieking. Her mother didn't make it that far. She died face down in the mud of their pig pen.

Green eyes refocus on the party, on an easy target: Jaina's younger brother, Tandred, with his bristly beard and red cheeks. The eldest brother, Derek, seems too responsible a man to provide the distraction she needs. He, like Jaina, would ask too many questions and care about their outcomes. On top of that he has a dance card nearly as full as his sister's: taking turns with Lucille, Clea, Aysa, and once with Thrall to everyone's amusement.

Valeera glides behind Tandred, stalking him to the bar, and murmurs, "Are you going to ask me to dance?"

He raises his eyebrows with a wide grin, "Who could refuse that offer?" and extends a beefy hand. She doesn't bother to set down her glass before they glide into the fray. Tandred is a passable dancer, fun at least, but she notes with growing displeasure that he isn't paying attention to her at all, his eyes glued to the back of Halduron Brightwing's blonde head.

Beside them, Anya and Taelia have apparently reemerged from wherever they disappeared to-- _learning bad habits from Tess and Lorna already_ \-- and Anya asks her, "Are you leading?"

"I haven't got a clue," Taelia laughs.

"We can take turns," says Anya, holding out her hand with a flirtatious bow. Taelia giggles, her cheeks pink, and takes her hand.

Valeera steers Tandred away, disgusted by the cloying sweetness in the air. The music is quick and brassy, a fun song with the right partner, but now she's quite certain she picked a dud.

"Think you can get me in with the Ranger-General?" he asks in a conspiratorial murmur.

She blinks at him, at first confused that he would bother pursuing Vereesa Windrunner when she is so clearly disinterested in anyone at all, but then she recalls his fascination with Brightwing. She scoffs and lifts her hand overhead, spinning him toward the bar in an abrupt release without bothering to answer his question. He staggers immediately toward his target without properly say goodbye.

From the edge of the room she takes quick stock of the Dark Rangers: Anya, Marrah, and Cyndia are clearly occupied, Alina dances again with Lucille, Clea dances with Nathanos now, as much as one can dance with him at all, and Kalira is hounding Yrel for their third dance in a row, apparently committed to personally ensuring the peace by aggressively pursuing the muscular Draenei. They are not available for her use tonight.

Her eyes lock with Liadrin Sunthread's, and she feels a roiling in her stomach, hot as a blacksmith's poker. Her ears lower, betraying her loss of control, and she cannot help but feel like a wheel rolling downhill, or like Liadrin is her storybook personified: impossible to grasp, blurry ink, shifting concepts in a foreign language. Much too difficult and painful, too selfless and respectful. Valeera wants something meaningless and easy and defined, something that hurts the way she knows.

It is Rommath who catches her staring, his eyebrow arched curiously. His gaze flickers from her, to Liadrin, then back to her, and he leans over to Lor'themar with one hand on his thigh. Then two sets of eyes are upon her.

_Well, only one-and-a-half_ , she thinks, considering the eyepatch.

She offers them a sneering smile, raising her thick glass in a mock toast. No doubt they speak of her in haughty whispers, the Alliance's blood elf spy, the rotten little girl from the Crimson Ring. She downs her bourbon and returns to the bar for more.

Lilian Voss appears beside her as if from thin air, and stares at the empty glass in Valeera's hand with an amused smile. "Night's going that well, huh?"

The bartender pours her a double and Valeera faces Lilian with an insatiable smile. Her tailored navy pantsuit clings to her body, suspenders just visible at the high waist of her slacks. She wears no tie or jewelry, and rolls the jacket's sleeves up her scarred forearms. Her chestnut hair is slicked back into a clean, tight bun.

_Why weren't you at the top of my list, Lilian? What a fool I am._

"Lilian, where have you been all my life?" She pushes aside the jacket, sliding her fingers beneath the suspenders below. "As promised, you are looking absolutely radiant."

She glances down at Valeera's plunging neckline and laughs, "As are you. I'm surprised you're free, but I did say I'd save you a dance. Velen can only keep up with me for so long." She tilts her head toward the catering table where the Divine Prophet of the Naaru putters about, stacking his plate with pastries, "He's a strange bird."

"I would love a dance, but let me finish this drink. I'll get another."

Lilian watches as she gulps the bourbon down, both of them with a significant wince, and says, "How about you let that one settle and we dance instead?"

The drink stings her throat like fire, and her eyes water involuntarily. She nods dizzily, taking Lilian's hand. They return to the dance floor in time for a new song, something slower than the rest, but familiar.

_The Lover's Quartet? By... someone. Verdarias?_

The thought vanishes and she loses interest in trying to guess the composer. She needs to focus all her mental faculties on remaining upright, so she loops her arms around Lilian's shoulders and lets her carry some of the weight. Lilian sways with her gently, far less dynamic than her usual style.

"You gonna make it?"

Valeera scans the room again, watching as people pair off. Both sets of Greymanes, the Pandarens, the Dark Rangers with the current objects of their affection. She notes that Clea has found one of Shandris' Sentinels, a strange combination given their staggering height difference and history, and Shandris herself sways with Alleria, a soft smile on both of their lips. Vereesa watches her sisters from a table beside Thalyssra Eles, who seems more invested in watching her.

Then there are Rommath and Lor'themar, and Derek and Katherine Proudmoore, both pairs impishly goading Halduron from the dancefloor where he has been emphatically captured by Tandred.

Most interestingly, the Warchief does not dance with Jaina, but with Alleria's son, Arator. Jaina herself dances with Anduin, and they both sneak obvious glances toward the other pair, where Sylvanas Windrunner moves as gracefully as ever, but with an overt determination to not make eye contact with her nephew. She wonders who coordinated that particular attack.

Suddenly, she catches Liadrin Sunthread watching her hawkishly from the tables, standing alone with a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. A pit grows in her stomach, the same unsteadiness she felt when Liadrin spoke in Thalassian in Anduin's study, and healed her legs as they rested across her warm lap. She redoubles her efforts, arching her back and pulling herself flush against Lilian's pressed white shirt.

"Yes, I'll make it," she whispers. "No need to worry yourself about little old me."

Lilian follows her gaze with a raised eyebrow that tugs at the stitches of her face, "Is that the problem?"

"I do not have a problem," Valeera mumbles.

"Does she know that?" Lilian says, dipping her gracefully.

Valeera's blonde hair bounces as she returns upright, swallowing her nausea. "I'll have you know she was very rude and set me on fire."

They step beside Thrall and Aggra, moving in time with the music. Arator and Anduin trade partners, dancing the true Lover's Quartet in all of its permutations. Sylvanas seems relieved to have the High King in front of her now, and the irony of that thought is not lost on Valeera.

"Is that a euphemism?" Lilian asks.

"You wish," breathes Valeera, lips drawing closer. "Filthy mind." She feels a pique of frustration that Lilian only smiles wider, amused and clearly not taking the bait.

"How much have you had to drink, Valeera?"

She doesn't want to answer that question and doesn't want to think about what it means that she's incredibly dizzy, and her heart is pounding, and she can feel the pink flush of her cheeks.

_Aegwynn said I have maladaptive trauma coping, but she's dead now too._

"Your questions are so very _boring_ , Lilian. I'm surprised at you."

But Lilian only grins again, pulling their bodies apart. "So sorry to disappoint, Miss Sanguinar. I'm an absolute dullard."

Valeera scoffs and looks away, exasperated by the flirtatious banter that is obviously going nowhere. Arator and Anduin have switched again, this time to pair off together while Sylvanas and Jaina dance, finalizing the Quartet. The flash of the cameras makes her head pound.

"This dullard thinks you should drink some water."

"I don't-" the words warp in her mouth, increasingly difficult to form. "I don't want water."

The Lover's Quartet comes to a close and Valeera, instead of bowing to her dance partner, takes her by the hand and shoves her into a chair at the sin'dorei table where Rommath and Lor'themar follow them with growing fascination. Valeera sits in her lap, one arm around her shoulders. She lifts a champagne flute to her lips with no clue to whom it belonged, smiling for the cameras, and says, "Hello, boys."

"You're exerting an awful lot of effort for someone who doesn't have a problem," Lilian murmurs into her left ear.

Valeera turns her head so they're nose to nose, nearly lip to lip, and she doesn't need to look back at Liadrin to know she's watching them. A flicker of Lilian's pale eyes tells the story of their audience's reaction. 

"Yeah." Lilian's hands glide down to Valeera's hips-- the movement an echo of Jaina's response to her advances in her Keep, _is she going to kiss me?_ \-- gracefully lifting Valeera out of her lap and guiding her to the chair she once occupied. "I don't want any part of this. Time for me to go."

"I don't... want any part of this either," Valeera slurs, gesturing with her purloined glass.

Liadrin's eyes narrow as Lor'themar says, "So you're just going to leave her here?"

"Better seated than trying to dance," Lilian shrugs. "Or walk, for that matter. Besides, she fits right in. I have other plans, and Liadrin isn't occupied anyway. You can watch her." 

"Oh, yes," Rommath chuckles. "Give her to Liadrin."

"You're not-- I'm not staying here." Valeera shakily stands, her hands planted on the white tablecloth, swallowing the growing urge to vomit. "No one is leaving me. I'm leaving."

She feels crushed beneath Liadrin's gaze, the pity of it, her green-gold eyes concerned and something else Valeera cannot parse. She wants to go home- home with anyone, anyone at all- just not alone and not with Liadrin. She stumbles in the direction of the bar; her heel catches between two wood planks, and she is too ungainly in her drunkenness to do anything but trip.

She lands hard against a field of red and gold. A pair of strong arms catches her before she falls, hooking behind her knees and shoulders, and lifting her entirely from the ground. Valeera knows it's Liadrin, her body as hard and unforgiving as her eyes. She cannot face her, and cannot quell the embarrassing gratitude she feels that she no longer has to balance on the rocking ship. Valeera curls into herself, ashamed, and hides her face in the fabric of the crimson suit.

She hears pieces of a conversation, Lilian and Liadrin for certain, perhaps Jaina and Anduin. They talk about what to do with her, about who will take her home. Liadrin holds her tightly. She is so very tired.

The curtain of her blackout grows darker by the second. She feels Liadrin's steady heartbeat in her ear, a comfortable rhythm beneath the thrum of her low voice, and the rest she cannot remember at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ain't no laws when you're drinking claws.


	29. Thalyssra, Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention champagne flutes 800 times in this chapter because I'm obsessed with the visual of Sylvanas' hands as masterfully presented by Zellk in [this image](https://zellk.tumblr.com/post/611607311575826432/too-lazy-to-push-this-further-still-taking-care)? 
> 
> (yes)

Thalyssra readjusts the thin shoulder strap of her magenta dress, a deeper purple tone than the last pink dress she wore, and says, "No doubt Liadrin will manage." She watches the redhead disappear below deck to the exit portals with Valeera Sanguinar limp in her arms. "She's quite responsible."

She sits at a large circular table with her Nightborne, mingling nicely with several of the Silver Covenant Rangers. Ranger Yribria sits among the spell-fencers, leaning into Arluelle as she speaks, her glowing blue eyes the same shade as their iridescent arcane markings. Thalyssra notes with a touch of pride that not every peer group is fraternizing so smoothly, except the Kul Tirans and Forsaken. She isn't certain if that's due primarily to the orders of the brides, or Derek Proudmoore's strange unifying presence between them. Either way, Katherine Proudmoore and Nathanos Blightcaller dance a jaunty jig to a goblin's accordion, her with practiced grace and him with ungainly abandon.

Vereesa returns to her seat at her right, eyes still pinched in worry despite Anduin and Liadrin's reassurances that Valeera would be cared for through the night, and not left to her own devices. Thalyssra watched as Jaina touched her arm, telling her something with an encouraging smile while Liadrin glowered at the two of them, unbothered by the dead weight of the woman she held. The cluster dispersed shortly thereafter with Lilian Voss accompanying Liadrin to the portals, turning away the photographers with an unnerving, pointed smile. The press did not follow them downstairs.

"She is," says Vereesa softly as she rests her hands on the white tablecloth.

Thalyssra lightly chews her lower lip, and notices the way Vereesa's mournful blue eyes follow Liadrin. The thread of tenuous connection between them unnerves her. Thalyssra is a perceptive woman but fully recognizes her social limitations, and does not understand the tension she sees: possibly a leftover from the Purge of Dalaran, or Vereesa's friendship with Jaina Proudmoore. The three of them are as tangled a trio as any cluster of leaders who've signed the Treaty, and she dreads the thought of being caught between them.

_Perhaps it is a misunderstanding_ , she thinks. _Perhaps they argued in Silvermoon before the wars._

Liadrin Sunthread is her friend, straightforward and honest in all the ways Thalyssra can appreciate, and Vereesa is her peer, among other things that have yet be be defined, and probably never would be despite her friends' prodding. It twists her heart to think of the other alternatives for their strained history for, if they were once lovers separated by war centuries ago, Vereesa would certainly choose Liadrin over her. She tears her eyes away from Vereesa's high cheekbones, ashamed at her cowardice and jealousy, and prioritizing her own desires over Vereesa's.

She deserves to be happy, whether alone or with someone else, no matter the thrill Thalyssra felt when they danced together, smiles on both of their lips. She didn't consider herself the best dancer, though all members of Elisande's court were passable enough to not disgrace their Grand Magistrix, as she would suffer no displeasure or ignominy on their behalf. Thalyssra had simply to let Vereesa lead her through the steps with quiet confidence, the hand on the small of her back offering gentle cues.

"I haven't done this in a long time," Vereesa murmured during their first dance, her voice just carrying over the sound of the violin. "I'm a bit rusty."

"You don't seem rusty to me," Thalyssra said, one palm resting delicately in Vereesa's warm hand, the other on her shoulder, trying her hardest not to blush and further embarrass herself. Her ears perked up excitedly and there was nothing she could do about that particular problem.

"Poor girl," says Stellagosa.

She wears an elegant Nightborne illusion today to avoid any questions about her presence or the potential political machinations of the Dragonflights in Azeroth's peace, and her abrupt height change from her high elf form still jars Thalyssra. While a prominent member of the Blue Dragonflight, Stellagosa is an honest woman with no ulterior motives; she simply wanted to attend the party with her girlfriend. Thus far, no one has noticed her slightly alien features, though Thalyssra supposes the other races are not familiar enough with Nightborne bone structure to recognize the subtle differences in her disguise.

"She'll receive no judgment from me," says Valtrois as she finishes her daiquiri, her dark purple lipstick leaving an imprint on the glass. "It's been several thousand years, but we've all been there. I don't envy her hangover tomorrow. On that note: drinks anyone?"

"No, I've fireworks to cast later," says Thalyssra. She is being a touch disingenuous: she doesn't want to drink too much in front of Vereesa again, not at the risk of making her uncomfortable like she did on the porch, leaning so close they could kiss. She would've; she wanted to. It gnaws at her in quiet moments that she would do something so cruel, that she would use Vereesa to sate her attraction. She feels such egotistical shame in it that not even Theryn knows her sordid little secret.

Valtrois rises and points to Vereesa, whose champagne flute is empty. "Daiquiri?"

"Oh, no, thank you. No rum for me."

"No rum _ever_ , Ranger-General?"

"Ever," Vereesa nods, exhaling heavily.

Valtrois laughs lightly, one hand resting on Stellagosa's bare shoulder. "Once again, I've been there too, albeit with gin. As it turns out, that is not a good liquor to binge if you have any desire to drink it again in your lifetime. I still can't smell juniper without gagging."

"Ah, the follies of youth," says Stellagosa, tilting up her head. Valtrois leans down and kisses her before she departs for the bar, and Vereesa watches their interactions thoughtfully. 

When they first sat together at the reception Thalyssra worried that Vereesa disliked Valtrois' outgoing personality and boisterousness, never enough to be rude, but her stance was rigid and formal. When Stellagosa made her introduction, one arm around Valtrois' waist, Vereesa's shoulders relaxed and she warmed to them both. She even mentioned her twins, Giramar and Galadin, and how enthralled they were by the entire idea of Stellagosa, spell-fencers, and Suramar. They already knew, of course, as Thalyssra had told them in great detail of their first meeting, but her friends nodded politely and happily, expressing a keen interest in the Stormwind Windrunners.

Stellagosa turns to Oculeth, watching the gnomes and goblins join the Kul Tirans and Dark Rangers in a line dance before giving into temptation and dragging him out to the dance floor. Valtrois meets them with a gleeful noise, daiquiri in her hand as she steps between Gelbin Mekkatorque and Gazlowe Wattboot, stomping to the rhythm. A handsome blonde half-elf links arms with the High King, swinging him in a wild circle, narrowly avoiding the Ranger-Captain as she dances with Taelia Fordragon.

"That's my nephew," Vereesa smiles. "I've never seen him quite so... excited. It's nice."

Thalyssra grins too, lost in the sight of Vereesa's pink lips and pearly white teeth, at the love the pours out of her when she watches her family. "It's very nice," she agrees. She sits upright abruptly, shaking away her daydream, and says with all the awkward formality of woman bad at small-talk, "I'm quite enjoying myself. Are you?"

"Far more than I anticipated." Vereesa turns to her, still smiling, "The food was good too. No butternut squash ravioli, but it's passable."

Earlier that night Vereesa's mood drastically changed after she whisked away to visit with Alleria and later Sylvanas, a combination Thalyssra worried might be volatile given the tenuous sociopolitical situation aboard the _Admiral's Pride_. But, while Sylvanas' disagreeable expression hardly changed a mote upon her return downstairs, Vereesa followed her with a thoughtful smile, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and Thalyssra found herself smiling in return.

"I suppose not everyone is lucky enough to sample your cooking."

"I think I can blame my sous-chef and that Jandvik red for my success," Vereesa says, her voice feather-light and amused.

"I'll have to test that theory next time," Thalyssra replies. "If you'd care to join me for dinner in Suramar. The boys are welcome too, of course. You can all meet my family."

The gravity of her words sinks onto Vereesa's face, pensive and surprised, whether by the mention of family or the extension of her invitation to the twins, she cannot tell. A knot of anxiety fills Thalyssra's stomach, as if she's made a grave miscalculation and drove Vereesa away with her over-familiarity and presumption that she would have any interest at all in spending more time with the Nightborne, much less so soon after their last meeting.

_Too much, too needy._

She swallows and looks down at her glowing fingertips, frustrated with herself for loosening this tourniquet before cutting out her desires. She is the First Arcanist, known for her surgical precision and vast knowledge born of experience, but she has tethered herself to Vereesa Windrunner like some useless hanger-on, another weight on her burdened shoulders.

Before she can retract her offer and stumble over an apology, Vereesa quietly says, "I think we would like that very much."

A blast of bagpipes reverberates through the room and snaps her from her reverie, jumping in surprise, one hand to her heart. She giggles, half in relief, half in embarrassment, and Vereesa laughs with her, her fingers resting on Thalyssra's knee, calming her and rooting her in place. The unexpected contact makes her shiver like the sparkling energy of a leyline as it glitters up her spine, and she just manages to control her impulse to take Vereesa's hand into her own before she pulls it away.

"One more song!" Anduin shouts across the room. "One more song, and then we see the First Peers out with proper fireworks!" Behind him the Proudmoore brothers have snuck behind the band, Derek fully equipped with a set of purloined bagpipes, and Tandred still wrestling his out of the hands of a put-upon Kul Tiran man.

The band strikes up a new tune, upbeat and vaguely familiar, joined by the previous musicians. Most of the humans and Forsaken seem to know the words, at least those sober enough to recognize the melody, and as the brides make their way to the dance floor, Jaina's lips form the lyrics and Sylvanas looks around her contently, if not quite smiling. They pair up together in a quick two-step that Jaina leads this time.

"Would you like to dance? I feel we should if even Sylvanas is joining in," says Vereesa. "I learned the steps in Boralus a few years ago."

And sure enough, nearly all the tables around them clear out in favor of the dance floor, barring the one that Talanji and Moira Thaurissan share, a wine glass in each of their hands. They haven't danced once, but chat casually and congenially, watching the crowd. Thalyssra cannot blame them: she wouldn't feel like dancing if her city had been bombed like Ironforge, and she suspects Vereesa would sit with her in respectful silence much the same as Talanji does.

"I'd love to," Thalyssra says.

Vereesa extends her hand and pulls her to the noisy crowd, where they blend seamlessly into dance floor's current. Thalyssra is grateful for the unfamiliar steps and the fast tempo of the beat, solid distractions that keep her from fixating on Vereesa's lips as she sings the words of the song under her breath. They spin and circle and still Thalyssra thinks of how badly she wants to lean down and kiss her to satiate the growing warmth in the pit of her stomach, to breathe in her singing and smiles like a drowning woman gasping for air. When the song ends and Vereesa laughs against her, their bodies pressed together by the jostling crowd, Thalyssra feels her growing urgency as clearly as Vereesa's hand on the small of her back.

Someone lightly touches Thalyssra's elbow, and Archmage Khadgar's grey hair pops into her vision. She sheepishly looks at his expectant face as she steps back from Vereesa, trying and failing to control her pounding heartbeat.

He says, "My good ladies, what a dance! It's time for fireworks! Shall we to the upper deck?"

Thalyssra swallows thickly, "Yes, thank you."

Vereesa's hand falls away from her back, and she blinks twice before she straightens her shoulders and replies, "Of course."

The crowd disperses and reforms near the staircases, but Vereesa remains by her side through the confusion. They file up the stairs behind Ly'leth, who reaches out to catch Anduin Wrynn's attention, and her towering night elf guard, the dreamy-eyed woman as tall as Shandris Feathermoon herself, who carries her black cloak. The young king turns to her with a smile, his left hand still being tugged up the stairs by a smiling Arator, and he says, "What can I do for you Lady Lunastre?"

"This was such a lovely ceremony and reception, High King," she says brightly, talking and walking beside him as easily as she breathes. "Thank you for that. I'd hate to ruin it with administrative trivialities, so I'll keep this brief: I've been tasked with reviewing the Horde's ledgers and trade manifests, just a bit of quality control, and I'll report my findings to the Reparations Council as they meet. It may be prudent for the Alliance to have a similar review."

They emerge above deck and a blast of winter air chills Thalyssra's skin, hardly stifled by the warming spells placed earlier in the evening. She would speak to her arcanists about their shoddy craftsmanship, though she suspects the ones who'd arrived earlier to prepare were too deep in their spirits for discipline to have any effect at all. She should have sent Valtrois to keep them in line.

"A wise notion to have a treasurer of sorts," he nods. Thalyssra smiles to herself; Ly'leth is an extremely persuasive woman, simultaneously shrewd and innocuous.

"Just to keep a steady grip on the finances. Everyone needs a bookkeeper," she congenially agrees.

"I'll be in touch," he says. "It seems a well-advised notion and I've someone in mind who would do nicely."

"Thank you, High King," Ly'leth smiles as he's dragged away by Arator to the ship's railing where the crowd clusters, champagne flutes in hand, looking out over the dark waves of Orgrimmar Harbor. Ly'leth and her bodyguard stand beside the other Nightborne, and Ly'leth gives no indication that she feels Delaryn place the black cloak around her shoulders. For a moment, Thalyssra thinks she sees Ly'leth lean back an imperceptibly small amount, her back against Delaryn's unmoving chest, but her focus is lost as Rommath slides up to her.

He glances at Vereesa with pursed lips, but directs no comment toward her. "First Arcanist, I've a favor to ask. I'm a bit drunk, so if this looks sloppy," he says, "don't tell me."

"I'll be sure to keep my opinions on your work a secret," says Thalyssra. "Though art is subjective."

He flourishes his hand skyward, walking toward Lor'thermar. "My work is above reproach."

Beside her Vereesa smiles, shoulders swaying as the ship rocks in the waves. She has no issue maintaining her balance, but the same cannot be said for Thalyssra, who aggressively clutches the rails. Either the rocking of the ship had been far less noticeable below deck, or she'd had more to drink than she intended. She takes a deep breath, staring down at the wooden railing. 

"Are you all right?" asks Vereesa.

Her ears tilt down, somewhat embarrassed, "I'll be all right. I suppose I was made for a desk job, not the open sea."

"I understand completely," says Vereesa, though she looks as effortlessly graceful and steady as she was dancing earlier that night. "I vote we leave the sailing to Jaina. The seafaring life is Sylvanas' problem now."

Thalyssra laughs in spite of herself, though Vereesa's elder sister still unnerves and discomforts her on many levels-- she is as cold and distant as a mountain's icy peak far against the horizon, not at all like the warm, lush forest of Vereesa-- but she can clearly imagine Sylvanas having no desire to lean into her new role as the First Lady of the Fleet.

A volley of thoughts seizes her attention as she smiles at Vereesa: _What is the wife of the Ranger-General of the Silver Covenant called? Contessa? Do they use the same conventions as Silvermoon?_

Her skin flushes with deeper embarrassment and presumption. She is no Rhonin Roth, and even internal speculation of Vereesa's preferences could only do her harm. Far better to never act on her attraction, never speak of it at all, than to lose her budding friendship or the sense of security she wishes to provide. She is a weak, weak woman who is not trying hard enough to give Vereesa what she deserves: she has suffered enough.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Vereesa asks again softly, this time resting one hand on the railing beside hers and the other on the small of Thalyssra's back. She looks up at her with concern, her bright blue eyes shining in the darkness. This close Thalyssra can smell her over the saltwater, woody and sunny like pine and bergamot, and it feels for a moment like the old days of Suramar long before the Legion came, when there was safety and celebration and intimacy. When her friends were all alive and unburdened, and her fingerprints didn't glow like a flickering mockery of the Nightwell.

It isn't until the first mage's fireworks burst overhead that she realizes she has missed Anduin's toast and her cue entirely. Thalyssra inhales sharply and pulls away, turning her face to the sky. She can't look down at her again. If she looks down her nerves will fail.

She focuses on her mage lights, the geometric fireworks explosive and intricate, a rainbow of stars and glimmering colors, and blinks back the tears that well up against her will. Vereesa turns her face to the harbor, ears lowered, and does not ask her again.

* * *

"You were right about the bagpipes," says Sylvanas without looking at her. "Your brothers are abysmal."

Jaina clears her throat and sets her lips with a small, triumphant smile, "I told you so. But they are nothing if not consistent."

The air above deck is bitterly cold, worse since the sun set, but all of Jaina except her face sinks deep into the Swan Feather Cape. Sylvanas had set it upon her shoulders again at the bottom of the stairs without giving her the opportunity to refuse. Jaina felt a ping of stubborn petulance at the decision being removed from her hands entirely, but said nothing in return. There were too many eyes and cameras watching, and she knew she would freeze otherwise.

The fireworks flash overhead, casting a multi-colored glow on her upturned face. It feels strange to her, all the magic users of the Horde and Alliance sending them off with mage lights, as if she should be among their ranks lighting up the sky. As an Archmage she had attended countless celebrations, often serving as the only sorceress and source of lights, her work never finished even at the parties to which she was invited. She feels a sense of luxury in simply being able to watch the fireworks, not cast them herself. And, to the credits of the others, they put on a magnificent show, particularly Thalyssra Eles, who casts a complicated metamorphosis of shapes and colors that demonstrates her mastery of illusory spells.

Beside them Nathanos sidles up to the railing, arms crossed unhappily, miffed at his forced removal from the dance floor by Marrah and Cyndia. On his other side stand Varok Saurfang and Genn Greymane, both behaving themselves most admirably despite their overt misery, glaring at each of the fireworks like they insulted their mothers.

Jaina turns to Sylvanas and asks, "What would you call that trio? A pack? A parliament?"

Sylvanas' eyes bounce from her face to the three men, and the corner of her lip quirks up. "A grumpy."

Jaina laughs in spite of herself, louder than she intended, and the tickle in her throat blooms into a deep, raw cough. She turns away from the crowd, doing her best to stifle the noise with the crook of her elbow. Her lungs ache and stretch, and she feels every modicum of her exhaustion as her adrenaline rapidly drains away.

Sylvanas takes the champagne flute out of Jaina's hand, and the glass clinks against her own. "It's time to go."

"I'm fine," Jaina says, clearing her throat, though she grows hoarser by the minute.

"We've served our time."

"We don't need to rush out-"

Sylvanas closes the space between them slowly, her voice low but lacking menace. Her red eyes glow bright, intense and pointed, "I can feel your fever through the Cape. We have done all that was asked of us. I would like to leave now."

The tickling rasp of the cough lodges in Jaina's chest as she stares up at her, her growing sickness an ugly thing she dares not reveal to the public any more than she already has. She sees something like dread on Sylvanas' face, from the prospect of continuing their social outing or having this argument at all, she cannot discern. She has no doubt that the day had been impossibly long for both of them.

Jaina heaves a haggard sigh, "All right." 

Sylvanas turns to Anduin at once, avoiding eye contact with her smiling nephew who leans on his arm. Jaina still doesn't know how Arator and Sylvanas came to dance together earlier that night, nor anything but her obvious, tacit discomfort on the subject, and she has no plans to ask about it. She watches the blonde boys grin together, and suspects that the surprise Lover's Quartet might have been a concerted effort on both their parts.

"Wrynn, we're leaving."

Anduin turns to them with reddened cheeks beneath his crown, and a brighter smile than Jaina has seen in years, that unabashed joy noticeably absent from his own coronation. The rare opportunity to see Anduin cut loose and enjoy himself reminds her of her time in Dalaran, when she and the other young mages would sneak wine and ale into their dormitory, playing games and drinking themselves silly, the memory of their early morning classes a distant regret.

"Ah, so soon! I hope the party was to your liking, Warchief," he tilts his head to Jaina, "Lord Admiral." 

Sylvanas purses her lips. "It went smoothly enough."

"It was delightful, Anduin," Jaina interjects. "You and Liadrin went above and beyond."

"Thank you," he says fondly. "I hope you don't mind, but I've asked several of the musicians and servers to stay a few more hours, just for anyone who'd like to dance and mingle a bit longer. We don't often have this chance."

"By all means," says Sylvanas with a wave of her hand, "celebrate."

Jaina clears her itching throat and points to Anduin like a stern schoolmarm. "Don't trash my ship, rabblerouser."

He places a hand over his heart, his cheeks flushed pink. "I shall rouse no rabble, auntie," he grins, and Arator laughs behind him mischievously.

They say their farewells as quietly as two high profile brides can, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries as required. Jaina hugs her brothers and mother, who briefly weeps again, and Sylvanas bids each of her Rangers good night. Nathanos disappears to the dance floor as soon as he's dismissed, inserting himself between Lucille and Alina, who look amused and mortified, respectively, before they slip away and leave him to his own devices.

"Is he going to be okay?" Jaina asks, her arm looped in Sylvanas' again.

"When the music ends he'll find his way back," Sylvanas says. "He always does."

When they enter the photography suite, the staged furniture now returned to its usual place, Sylvanas gives directions to Abnar in Gutterspeak. Her Forsaken butler bows as low as he can while gingerly carrying their wedding presents, off to deliver their gifts to the Warchief's Suite ahead of their arrival.

"Well, we certainly put on a good show," says Jaina as they pass through the room of mage portals. "The newspapers will have their fill for some time."

A goblin mage bows as he activates the portal for them, and Jaina thinks again that it is very refreshing to let someone else offer their arcane services, not that she wasn't capable of doing it herself, but so she didn't have to expend the energy. The goblin's magic smells of guava and leather, a strange overlay when combined with the saltwater of the _Admiral's Pride_ and the burning oak of Grommash Hold's central chambers, the disparate scents combining as they pass through the portal.

"Anduin's little spy did most of the heavy lifting on that front," Sylvanas says, her voice amused.

Jaina scowls, "Fuckin' Valeera."

Sylvanas raises her eyebrows, openly surprised, always more expressive after eating. "You're not a fan then?"

"No, I love her dearly," Jaina shakes her head, chiding herself for the vitriolic response. "She's just always getting into trouble, and she said she would behave. It's hard for me to imagine a set of circumstances in which I would allow Liadrin Sunthread to take her home for the night, particularly after their last altercation."

Sylvanas tilts her head quizzically. "What altercation?"

"Ah," says Jaina, realizing her misstep.

She pauses for only a moment before launching into the tale, or at least a truncated version of the mismatched stories Valeera and Anduin told. It would serve neither of them to hide anything from her now, as she'd foolishly let slip their squabble. Sylvanas listens with rapt attention, flashes of anger and mirth and a touch of pride in Liadrin shading her face as Jaina speaks. There is no sign of her bombastic fury or cold retribution in her eyes, only the fox's sly humor.

Sylvanas chuckles at the end of the story, her fangs bared only for a moment. "The only danger to Valeera Sanguinar tonight is herself. It may be hard for you to believe given your history with Liadrin, but she's quite trustworthy." Sylvanas opens the door to the main hall, guiding Jaina through. "Though I shall have words with her for not telling me."

Jaina coughs lightly, "Don't tell her I told you. She needs no further reason to hate me."

"Whether I tell her or not, it won't take her long to figure out who it was," she replies. "Besides, I have known Liadrin since childhood: she would have confessed it to me eventually."

Jaina does not press for more but files this information away, sorting through the memories of their night at the Spire as best she can in her current state. The farther from the ship they walk the more Jaina feels like she wades through quicksand, the pressure of her exhaustion bearing down upon her. She can just hear the wheeze of her breathing over the click of their heels on the tile floor, but realizes that Liadrin must have been the redhead in the pictures, the one always shown beside Vereesa. She had never considered that the Windrunners might have known her before the Scourge, a quel'dorei child like any other. She wonders if Liadrin remembers taking the picture with Vereesa on her back at the shooting range, waving her bow, a carefree smile on both their faces.

_I have never seen either of them smile like that since_ , thinks Jaina. They are defined by their coping mechanisms now: Vereesa carries her unspeakable sorrow, and Liadrin has hardened herself to the world so thoroughly that her fearless innocence is unrecognizable. Jaina's white hair glows orange in the torchlight and she considers that she has done a bit of both of those things.

When they arrive at the Warchief's Suite, the halls eerily quiet without a contingent of Dark Rangers patrolling them, Jaina sees the wedding presents laying side-by-side on the low table next to a pitcher of water and two glasses. Both fireplaces burn brightly; Abnar must have lit them to mitigate the chill permeating the large windows.

Sylvanas releases her arm and collects her satin skirts, the motion strangely feminine and delicate, and takes a seat on one of the sofas. She still looks every bit the part of a bride, even without a bouquet of white roses in her hand. She recalls the look of wonder and fear on Taelia's face during the bouquet toss and the viper-quick speed of Anya's rescue, and how they looked so darling standing nose to nose that she couldn't help but laugh at their preciousness.

Jaina coughs lightly into her elbow, smiling faintly. She takes off her heels, relishing the plush rug beneath her feet, and asks, "When we did our bouquet toss, were you aiming?"

"How could I?" Sylvanas asks, rearranging her dress. "My back was turned."

"I just noticed our bouquets fell in close proximity."

Sylvanas' eyes narrow. "Were _you_ aiming?"

Jaina smiles. "How could I? My back was turned."

"Mmhmm," says Sylvanas. She gestures to the boxes on the table. "Shall we?"

The exchange of wedding presents is a tradition in both of their cultures, if one less emotionally charged and ceremonial than the Fisherman's Knot or il'amaren. A thread of anxiety needles through her stomach, the foolish worry that Sylvanas won't like her gift-- not that it matters; she doesn't have to like it because they're already married and this is just the continuation of the requirements of the Unification Treatise, the First Peers upholding their traditions-- and Jaina blames her fever for her sudden concern. She would hate for her night to end sourly after such a successful evening, one she might even call _enjoyable_.

She doesn't know what it says about her growing cynicism that she had no illusions of enjoying her own wedding, but when she thinks of the dancing and mostly happy faces around her she feels a swell of pride that everyone behaved. Sylvanas herself is a tremendous dancer, smooth and light on her feet, and not at all afraid to confidently display her abilities. She had a look of tenuous happiness about her too, another shade of the Ranger-General that Jaina found far more appealing than the Warchief's usual peevish glower, even if it was not so sweet as the youthful, wide-eyed expression she wore after their kiss.

Jaina inhales sharply, clearing her mind, and takes a seat on the opposite grey sofa. A wave of relief washes over her as soon as she lands on the cushions; she hadn't noticed the tension in her legs, or the way her exhausted body longs to slouch and sink into the sofa as much as her tight dress will allow. Instead she pulls her heavy gift into her lap and says, "Go ahead."

Sylvanas carefully opens her present, long fingers sliding beneath the seams of the silver wrapping paper and setting aside the top of the clothing box. Jaina thinks that perhaps she went overboard with her gift, but it's too late to renege now. She watches as Sylvanas sorts through the three pairs of button up pajamas-- charcoal, burgundy, and navy-- and two robes-- both purple, but one silk for summer and one thick fleece for winter-- and matching slippers-- again, both purple, but with fabric to match their corresponding robes. She sets each of the clothing sets beside her on the sofa, red eyes darting curiously across the fabric, as if she doesn't know what to say.

_She probably hates it. She hates everything._

"If something doesn't fit let me know and I can exchange it," says Jaina, unwilling to let the awkward silence sit a moment longer. "I thought it was appropriate that you have something comfortable to wear that isn't literal armor."

Sylvanas' eyebrows knit together, her words more a confused observation than a complaint, "I don't sleep."

"That doesn't mean you have to be uncomfortable. And," Jaina fingers the blue wrapping paper in her lap, "not sleeping is entirely your choice."

Sylvanas searches her face for a long moment before she remembers herself and says, "Thank you. They're nice."

"You don't have to wear them if you don't like them," Jaina frowns.

Sylvanas scowls, her ears lowering, "I never said I didn't like them."

"I'm just telling you that you won't offend me if you don't wear-"

"I'm going to wear them!" Sylvanas snaps.

"Fine!" Jaina snaps back. They sit in charged silence for a beat, their dainty wedding dresses a direct contradiction of their stubborn, clenched jaws, before Jaina sighs and kneads her burning forehead. "I'm sorry. I should have let it go. It's been a long day."

_And I was worried you wouldn't like your gift._

Sylvanas eyes her warily before her gaze slips to the fireplace, the log encased by a healthy orange flame. "I apologize as well. I did not properly convey my thanks. I like the pajamas. They're very fine and," her fingers graze the collar of the thick fleece robe, "soft."

"I'm glad," Jaina replies. Sylvanas glances down expectantly at the still-wrapped gift in her hands. "My turn, I suppose."

Her pulse quickens, suddenly nervous again, and she opens her present methodically, setting aside the blue wrapping paper. She holds a hefty tome of brown leather in her hands, the cover embossed with sailing motifs. Anchors, seashells, and ropework wind across the front of the book, masterfully crafted and bound, though lacking a title and author. Curiously, Jaina turns to the first page where a single line in the center reads:

_Property of Lord Admiral Jaina Proudmoore._

She flips through her dossier of naval notes and drawings, the pages of which she provided Sylvanas weeks ago. The book is elegant and rich, and conveys a gravitas when bound that her loose sketches and commentary could not. It belongs on a grand pedestal in Proudmoore Keep's library, on proud display, a work of art. She feels a tingling ache in her chest as she realizes she has never received a gift like this one, tailored both to highlight her work and suit her aesthetic, or perhaps she can blame the stinging feeling on another symptom of her illness and fatigue.

Very softly, Jaina says, "This is wonderful."

Sylvanas' ears perk up, obviously pleased with herself, and she says, "I've kept the bookbinder on retainer if you wish to rearrange the pages."

"No, it's perfect," Jaina swallows her emotion, thumbing through her book of the fleet.

"Good," says Sylvanas. She rises from the sofa, the fabric of her wedding dress cut like armor on her form, rubbing one thumb across the sleeve of her charcoal pajamas as she lifts them from the gift box, still appraising the fabric's material. "Well, it's late. You should get some rest." 

"It is very late," Jaina agrees.

She sets the book on the table, blinking back the heaviness of her eyelids as she prepares to rise from the sofa. Under different circumstances she might have fallen asleep then and there, wedding dress or not. She sighs, standing, and passes Sylvanas on her way to the bedroom where she retrieves her overnight bag. She supposes she will eventually have to move her belongings to Orgrimmar, but they haven't had the time to coordinate those efforts and the snowflake portal is convenient enough for now. Though she may place a second portal in a more private location, bedroom to bedroom, to avoid ghosting through Proudmoore Keep's hallways late at night to retrieve her forgotten toothbrush or something equally ridiculous. But not tonight.

She closes the bathroom door and looks at herself in the mirror, her dark circles ocean-deep, her face gaunt beneath the Archmage's Diadem. Jaina hopes she looked more awake earlier in the evening, though the pretense of her health slips away as she slows down, as if the momentum of her work fades away, replaced by stillness and sickness. Her inertia dissipates in Grommash Hold, where she knows the bed is comfortable and Sylvanas will leave her to sleep in peace. This is the first time things have slowed enough to realize her predicament: she will be living permanently in Orgrimmar until mid-summer, sleeping in Sylvanas' bed, sharing her space when she isn't left entirely to her own solitude.

She removes the Diadem, placing it gently back into its velvet case in her bag. Her fingers reach up to the nape of her neck, trying and failing to unbutton the tight collar of her dress. She grimaces, readjusting her position. The buttons remain securely fastened, her fingertips chafed and red. Vereesa and Lucille helped her out of dress at the tailor's shop, but Jaina hadn't considered that she might not be able to get out of it alone. She attempts it twice more before her hands flop to her sides, exasperated and sore.

She thinks she could get it herself, maybe, with enough time and effort. But she stares at her reflection in the mirror, worn and glossy-eyed, and wonders if this is the expression Sylvanas saw looking back at her at the Spire, after the pressure of her banshee wail rang through Jaina's brain like a massive tolling bell, with a bit less blood on her face this time.

She reasons that Sylvanas asked for _her_ help, and she gave it with only a few very practical reservations about blind portals. Jaina asking for help in return, even for something as trivial as unbuttoning her dress, might make it easier for both of them to ask again in the future, and wasn't that the point of this marriage in the first place? They were meant to uphold the tenets of the peace, even privately, even begrudgingly.

Jaina sighs again. She can reason with her reflection all night, but the bottom line is that she's stuck in her wedding dress.

She opens the bathroom door before she can change her mind and calls, "Sylvanas?"

Sylvanas appears at once in the bedroom doorframe like the spectral ghost of a scorned bride, her charcoal pajamas draped over her forearm. "Yes?"

Icy embarrassment wells up in her stomach, a swirling mess of vulnerability and reluctance and illness, and Jaina does not look at her when she asks, "Will you unbutton my dress?"

Sylvanas cants her head suspiciously, as if the question is a trap, but she must read some measure of discomfort on Jaina's face because she sets her pajamas on the dresser, steps forward, and says, "Yes."

Jaina inhales unsteadily, her ribcage unable to expand fully in her form-fitting dress, and turns back to the mirror. She watches as Sylvanas approaches her from behind, a sight that would have terrified her once upon a time, but now her firefly-flickering emotions-- _my fever_ , she tells herself, _I have a bad fever_ \-- speak more of mystery than fear. She cannot place a name on why it makes her feel so exposed that Sylvanas doesn't mock her ineptitude, but gently, silently complies.

Jaina pulls her white hair over one shoulder in the space where her braid normally rests, and Sylvanas slowly opens the top button, careful not to touch her skin. She thinks of how Sylvanas taunted her a mere month ago, her gauntlet sliding against the silver of her anchor pendant on the rooftop of Proudmoore Keep. Jaina thinks of how guilty she felt afterwards for touching her face, her lips, without permission.

They stand together again, no crisis or artifice nipping at their heels this time, no need to posture except to each other. Jaina can see Sylvanas' faint freckles in the electric light of the bathroom, their bathroom now-- she is the Warqueen and Sylvanas is her First Lady of the Fleet, and for all of her meticulous planning and contingencies, she never once considered that either of those things were even possible-- and how they line her broad shoulders just like her nose and cheekbones.

She undoes her second and third buttons just as slowly, her strong fingers working deftly. The lace pulls taut against Jaina's throat for just moment before peeling away.

Jaina opens her eyes, though she didn't realize she'd closed them, and Sylvanas gazes at her in the mirror, her face unreadable. Her hands have fallen away though there are three remaining buttons low on Jaina's back.

"Shall I continue?" Sylvanas asks quietly.

She breathes, "Yes, please."

A loaded pause between them lingers before Sylvanas' eyes lower and her lips part. Jaina watches as she works, and tries not to shiver as Sylvanas' knuckles graze her low back in the window of her dress, cooler than her own flesh but not cold or unpleasant. There is something alluring in the innocent authenticity of her movements, something that spurs on Jaina's urge for companionship, a sensation she has lately chosen not to indulge, if only to spare herself the heartache. Her mind tells her it is the boiling of her blood and the leftover excitement of their successful evening, but her body barely resists the urge to tremble as Sylvanas undresses her.

Jaina holds the bodice of her dress where it falls away from her shoulders, hugging the lace to her skin. Sylvanas stands behind her silently, watching her in the mirror, her work complete.

_You look very lovely in your mother's dress._ Jaina almost speaks the words-- it's Sylvanas' wedding day too and she deserves the compliment, she deserves the truth-- but her voice catches and the words melt like snowflakes on her tongue. Instead she hollowly says, "Thank you."

Sylvanas recoils like her gratitude burns, as if the frightful calm between them is shattered. Her voice is clipped when she replies, "It's nothing."

She turns quickly and flees the room entirely, her pajamas forgotten on the dresser. Jaina stands in the bathroom, lace clutched in her fingers, lonely and cold despite her fever. She looks at the tired, flushed woman in the mirror and thinks that after all she's been through, she is a still fool for letting down her guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaina listened to WAP too much before the wedding and it really backfired.


	30. Liadrin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30 chapters, 150k words, BAYYYY BEEEEE. Got something special for you this time, along with some updated tags. 👀
> 
> TW: mentions of past sexual assault

The portal evaporates behind her and Liadrin stands tall, her mouth set in a grim line, as she strides through the travel hub of Silvermoon, ignoring the wide, curious eyes of the night shift mages who ogle her. They dare not question her or breathe a word in her direction at all, but she will undoubtedly hear the rumors of her appearance for the foreseeable future: she went to the wedding alone and returned with a blonde woman in a red dress semi-conscious in her arms.

Once, decades ago, Liadrin accompanied Halduron, Rommath, and Lor'themar to a ceremony; a knighting, if she recalls correctly, though all extravagant social occasions blend together in her memory, and their night concluded with Rommath slung over her right shoulder like a limp noodle, and Halduron and Lor'themar propping each other up as effectively as a pair of stilts on a drunkard. She, the only member of their quartet even remotely capable of walking, spent the better part of an hour wrangling them like a herding dog before dropping them off in their beds, formal clothes still on.

She told herself at the time, _These assholes can tuck themselves in_. But she at least removed their boots before stomping off to her own home. No one should have to sleep in their shoes, even her embarrassingly drunk, irresponsible trio of comrades.

And still, somehow, one single Valeera Sanguinar is proving more difficult to manage. Liadrin scowls, her stride steady and unhurried as she steps out into the frigid streets of Silvermoon. The road is slick with frost, shiny and dangerous, but her home is nearby, only a few minute's walk, even with troublesome cargo in tow. Liadrin wishes she'd thought of a finding a coat for Valeera, whose plunging neckline and high-cut slit cover very little of her skin, but she seems too flushed and deep in her drink to notice the cold.

She felt at once that Valeera wasn't wearing anything under her dress, and Liadrin's ears flattened aboard the _Admiral's Pride_ , an arrogant name for an arrogant woman's ship. She shouldn't have been surprised by this information after watching Valeera so aggressively attempt to wrangle Lilian Voss into her bed, but she can still feel heat blooming on the skin of her cheeks. Valeera remained unconscious in her arms just long enough get off of the ship, nodding farewell to Lilian, who was headed off to belore-knows-where, before she partially woke in a daze, her fingers dancing along the golden buttons of Liadrin's red shirt.

Rommath is a small man who still weighs more than Valeera, especially in his heavy ceremonial robes, but at least he never tried to drunkenly unbutton her blouse.

"Stop," she says firmly.

Valeera looks up at her with half-lidded eyes, glossy with drunkenness, and her full lips twist into a frown. If she were sober the look might have been a pout, but this inebriated she can only convey a sense of pathetic dejection. She balls up her hands in the wrinkled fabric of Liadrin's shirt, but leaves the remaining buttons alone.

Liadrin continues the rest of her trek in peace, surprised that Valeera isn't squirming in her grasp or attempting an invisible escape. The other woman says nothing, and for a moment she seems silent enough to be asleep but for the constant fidgeting of her fingers, as if she longs for something to hold. Liadrin steals brief glances at Valeera as her head lolls against her chest, the stitches of Liadrin's breast pocket imprinting on her cheekbone, the same one that split and bled where she punched her in Stormwind.

Her green eyes are partially open, staring forward at nothing, her black eyeliner smudged beneath her lashes. She can see her thinking about something, perhaps a thought she won't remember tomorrow in the midst of a pounding headache, but it keeps her awake and tormented even through a powerful blackout. There is something deeper in her eyes, an intelligence certainly, but something vast and hurt, a woman with history she would rather not remember or explain.

Liadrin could see it clear as day in Anduin's study as Valeera sunk away from her and into the couch pillows, as far from her healing and Thalassian as she could get. She could only blame so much of Valeera's discomfort on her concussion, but the rest was another animal entirely: Liadrin is certain it's the same one that drove her to the sin'dorei table and Lilian Voss' lap, a cry for attention that masked a softer need for affection.

At the time, Liadrin wasn't certain that Lilian had the fortitude to remove herself from Valeera's grasp, or that she would care at all if she was unthinkably drunk-- hot fury built up in her gut: she'd heard the rumors of Lilian's misadventures with any woman remotely interested in her-- but her estimation of the Forsaken woman rose the moment they made eye contact, Valeera's body the strange wall between them. The spike of heat in her stomach- not jealousy, Liadrin would rather die than name it jealousy for she has no right or reason to that claim- faded at once, replaced by worry and pity and the familiar protectiveness that always permeates her being. She saw a mirror of it on Lilian's scarred face, a touch sharper around the edges, but just as honest.

Just before they parted ways at the portals, which were mercifully absent of the press, Lilian said, "She's not going to like you taking care of her."

"What does that mean?" Liadrin asked. 

"It means you're the right person to do it," Lilian cryptically replied before vanishing through a portal on the Alliance side. Liadrin couldn't fathom what she had to do so late at night after the Warchief's wedding, but the machinations of rogues, even the straightforward ones, often perplexed her.

As she arrives at her doorstep, she readjusts Valeera's weight against her chest, dropping to one knee so she doesn't have to fully set her down, and fishes her key from her pocket. Liadrin scoops Valeera up again, rising to her feet, and unlocks the door in silence. Two of her captains, Ra'thelon and Baunis, stand from their places on her living room couch, their weapons on their hips but otherwise unarmored. The warmth of her home is a relief from the bitter chill outside and, while Valeera may not be able to feel it, her long ear rests as cold as ice against Liadrin's neck.

She pays her more domestically inclined Blood Knights to babysit Salandria, not solely for the protection they offer, but because the child runs circles around weaker spirits. Halduron refuses to be alone with her after she tricked him into three-hour long formal tea party with her stuffed animals, though he did admit he enjoyed the poisoning subplot, if not Lady Ursula Tenderpaw's treachery. Rommath and Lor'themar made better roleplayers, though Lor'themar took offense at how often Salandria informed him that he had died of poison tea cakes.

Liadrin stands before them, Valeera silent and obviously drunk in her arms. The men quickly glance over the blonde, as if trying and failing to recognize her, but she stares down her two Blood Knights, daring them to say a word about her current predicament. They do not.

"How was she?" she asks them, whispering in Thalassian.

"Good, she went to bed on time," says Baunis softly. The man is barrel-chested and powerfully built, but would have made a better kindergarten teacher than a soldier. "She asked for pictures of the wedding. She wanted to see the Warchief's dress."

"It will be in the papers tomorrow," Liadrin says as she turns to Ra'thelon. "Did she eat her dinner?"

"All of it," he nods. He is lankier than Baunis and less introspective, but an excellent chef with a slew of stupid jokes that entertain Salandria. "I hardly had to hide the vegetables in the pasta at all. She was far better about her apples this afternoon too. No peanut butter demands today. Your little lady is growing up."

Liadrin hums. "Something like that. Thank you for your service, captains."

They respectfully dip their heads and make a quiet exit, locking the door behind them. Liadrin crosses through the dark kitchen, careful not to knock Valeera's head on the counter, and peeks inside Salandria's room, where she sleeps sprawled across her bed, softly snoring. Satisfied with her ward's condition, she moves onto the next blonde in her care, concerned with her bleary-eyed daze and still-clenched fingers. She toes out of her shoes as she enters her tidy bedroom, lit by the soft glow of a single lamp on her bedside table, and lowers Valeera to the bed, where she manages to sit upright, if unsteady.

Valeera doesn't release the red blouse, forcing Liadrin to lean down over her, until she carefully uncurls the frozen fingers holding her in place, and sets them in her lap.

Before Liadrin can step away, Valeera springs forward in a sloppy rush, one hand around her belt and the other behind Liadrin's head, her fingers threading roughly through her orange hair. Valeera compulsively kisses along her jawline and down her neck, warm and wet and desperate, as if she tries to fill the space between them with the only thing she knows. Liadrin stumbles back in shock, barely holding them both up.

"No," gasps Liadrin, her Common harsher than she intended. "You're drunk."

Valeera doesn't stop this time, as if her fingers are compelled to tear at the front of Liadrin's suit, fumbling again with the golden buttons. She pants against the skin of her neck, her lips soft and open for more, but her body quivers and her eyes press closed hard, as if she holds back tears.

Liadrin holds Valeera's palms still against her chest, flattening them to her sternum with one hand as she takes Valeera's chin into her other, tilting her head up to face her, to not let her look away. Maudlin, shame-filled eyes dart around her face, and she inhales in quick, shuddering breaths.

"No," Liadrin says again, more softly. "You don't need to do this."

For only a moment, Valeera looks back at her with mortified clarity, horrified with herself for betraying her unspoken confession-- all of her kisses are wrapped in the messy bow of a woman lashing out to regain control of what was taken from her: her body and her consent and her sexuality-- before she collapses entirely, turning her mascara-stained face to the bedside lamp, eyes vacant.

When Liadrin presses down gently on her shoulders, guiding her back to the bed, she does not resist. Heavy tears fall from her eyes in absolute silence, and she sways unsteadily from the edge of the bed, as if she never left the ship. Her eyes dim into something hollow and intangible, like she has ceased to exist entirely, and Liadrin realizes with a burning coal in her stomach that she cannot fix this tonight, she may not be able to fix this at all, and the white-hot fury of the injustices done to Valeera feed the engine of her rage. She wants to crash through flesh and bone, and destroy anyone who has ever touched her without kindness and uncoerced permission.

Instead she sinks to her knees, her jaw so tight it aches, and she says, "I am going to take off your shoes."

Valeera says nothing to her, as if she cannot hear at all, and Liadrin slides her feet out of the black stiletto heels, resting them on her carpet. She cannot kill the people who've wrong Valeera, but she can take off her shoes and make her comfortable and let her rest where no one else will hurt her.

Liadrin pulls away, staring up at her from her knees. She says, "I'll be right back." Valeera slouches, incredibly small on the large bed, but doesn't respond.

Liadrin rises from her knees to pour a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the bedside table for Valeera, and rummages through her drawers until she finds two pairs of pajamas, simple cotton shorts and shirts. From the bathroom she retrieves a wipe for her makeup, and the trash basket, which she sets by the edge of the bed.

"Can you put these on?" She attempts to hand her one set of the pajamas, but Valeera doesn't acknowledge her. Liadrin's brow furrows but she says, "I'm going to take your dress off so you can wear pajamas."

She purses her lips, leaning around her to unzip her dress in the back. She physically lifts Valeera up from her seated position, and her red dress slides off, pooling around her bare feet. Liadrin averts her eyes at once, unwilling to violate Valeera with even a look. She cannot help but notice the scars that crisscross her back, many faded with time but others thick and white, as if she'd been repeatedly whipped. Liadrin swallows her boiling anger with a scowl.

"Can you lift your arms?" she asks, but Valeera remains as still and limp as a ragdoll, her eyes fixed on the floor.

She manages to slide Valeera's head and arms through the soft shirt, and pull up the shorts around her hips, but the clothes are slightly too large for her and loosely bag around her petite body, or perhaps she is simply more used to seeing her in form-fitting outfits. She folds up the elegant red dress, setting it on a chair beside Valeera's heels. Through the fabric she can feel the weight and shape of Valeera's Hearthstone safely tucked into a pocket sewn into a shoulder strap, a clever solution for a quick escape. Liadrin wonders if all rogues have this sort of contingency, or if Valeera is particularly flighty.

"May I take down your hair?" Liadrin asks. She has slept enough times in a tight ponytail when on the battlefront to know the soreness of her scalp the following morning, and Valeera would need no more pain in the vicinity of her head. Liadrin waits no longer for an answer, but gingerly undoes her hair, freeing it to loosely rest against the pale curve of her shoulders.

"I'm going to touch your face now, to take off your makeup," she says. She has asked Valeera enough unanswered questions to know this time that she would receive no reply. She stands before her again, tilting up her head, wiping the coal from her eyes and the lipstick from her mouth. Valeera closes her eyelids with a quivering frown, the first indication of any emotion she's shown since Liadrin told her no, as if it hurts her to look at Liadrin directly. But she doesn't resist, and her empty palms rest heavily in her lap.

Stripped of her makeup and dress with her golden hair framing her face, Valeera looks youthful and frightened, a lost woman with earnest eyes, and Liadrin is completely helpless to extend her safety or trust in a meaningful way. She quells the fluttering realization that she is a breathtaking beauty, even at her lowest, and silently chides herself for such a shallow thought, one that Valeera has undoubtedly heard ten thousand times. Liadrin wipes the last of her eyeliner away and says nothing. She knows very little of Valeera, but can say one thing with absolute certainty: she would never allow these kindnesses sober, whether or not she desired them in the first place.

_No,_ Liadrin resolves. _She wouldn't want this at all, no matter how she needs it._

"I'm going to lay you down," she murmurs. She peels back the heavy comforter, and lifts Valeera in a bridal carry, resettling her on her back against the cool sheets and pillows. Her green eyes remain blank and catatonic, watching nothing on the ceiling. Liadrin pulls the comforter up to her chin and drapes an extra blue blanket over her body: Liadrin's room is in the cooler part of the house, a delight in the summer and struggle in the winter.

She leans across her, tucking the comforter around her motionless form, and over the lingering whiskey on her breath she can smell green, sweet flowers in her hair, maybe from her shampoo or perfume. What kind she cannot say, but Sylvanas was always better about that sort of thing and Liadrin had no head for distinguishing fine scents or flavors. She knows only simple truths: that Valeera's hair smells nice, like a fresh-cut bouquet.

"I'll be in the living room," Liadrin says quietly.

Suddenly, Valeera's eyes refocus onto hers, pleading but afraid to speak, and Liadrin thinks she might reach out from beneath the sheets and cling to her shirt again to keep her from leaving- and she would stay, she doesn't want her to be alone- but Valeera's eyebrows knit together angrily and she rolls away from her, curling into a tight ball, her face hidden beneath the comforter. The baggy green shirt tugs down her back and reveals the upper curve of her shoulder blades, marred by the slashing white scars even paler than her skin. One crosses her spine, deep and barbaric, its path so brutal that it's a miracle Valeera wasn't paralyzed the moment it landed.

Liadrin pauses, her stomach knotted in grief. She wants to reach out and hold her and stroke her hair, but lingers on how inappropriate it would be for Valeera to wake in a place she doesn't know with a woman who beat her like all the others. She has survived enough of strangers and their selfish desires. Liadrin tears her eyes away, mouth twisted unhappily, and turns off the bedside lamp, pitching her bedroom into heavy darkness.

She retreats to her bathroom where she changes into her pajamas, grateful for something more comfortable than her blood red suit, particularly as rumpled and half-undone as it was on her walk home. She pulls the shirt over her head, ears popping through the neck hole, a faint smile on her lips as she thinks that the wedding went well, all things considered, and Anduin, for his baby-faced antics, could speak eloquently enough to convey a certain dignity when he needed to. She brushes her teeth thoughtfully. Her scripting worked fluidly, and all had gone according to plan, especially the il'amaren and Sylvanas' wide-eyed shock in its aftermath.

Liadrin smiles widely, her mouth full of toothpaste. She wasn't above a _little_ tormenting, not when it involved a two-for-one special of Sylvanas and Jaina Proudmoore. She knew they'd both be too stubborn to refuse, even if it meant a highly publicized kiss.

As she rinses her mouth she recounts her surprise at Thalyssra's apparent friendship with her peer, Vereesa, though she supposes it's not a far stretch to say that Vereesa has always gravitated toward academic magic users, Liadrin being the only major exception. _Better Thalyssra than Jaina Proudmoore_ , she thinks with a scowl. _It's_ _Sylvanas' turn to suffer that burden._

Neither of Sylvanas' sisters greeted Liadrin at all, not that she expected them to, and she went out of her way to avoid bumping into them in kind. The chasm between them is pitch black and deeper than she can reckon, and she feels the icy sting of embarrassment for wanting to close that gap in the first place when they clearly did not think of her at all. She spits in the sink.

When she passes through her bedroom on her way to the living room sofa, Liadrin can just make out the outline of Valeera's body, unmoved from her previous position. She wonders if she's already fallen asleep, and hopes that she has. She would need as much rest as she could get to have any chance of surviving a hangover in the morning.

Liadrin retrieves a blanket from an old trunk in her living room, settling down on the couch for the night. She stares at her ceiling for a while, attempting to recount her day without dredging up the murky emotions around it. It often takes her a long time to fall asleep; relaxing and decompressing are difficult tasks for her, no matter how thoroughly she exhausts her body before bed. She sleeps better with someone next to her and, even if she shouldn't baby Salandria that way, she enjoys it when her ward creeps into her bedroom during thunderstorms, afraid of the booming noise but too proud to say so.

She shifts against the cushions, rolling onto her side. She and Vereesa often shared a bed when they were Salandria's age, or they would beg to sleep with Sylvanas in her room before she became a Ranger. They loved how she never shied away from reading them scary stories that made them jump and scream and cling to her, even if it kept them all awake late into the night.

She recalls sleeping in Alleria's bed only once-- the eldest Windrunner was too often sprinting from one adventure to the next, and rarely spent long at home-- but her bed was always piled high with pillows, and could fit all five of them if they squeezed in like matchsticks, so they did, knobbly knees digging into each other until Alleria grew exasperated and took Lirath into her arms, and laid down with him across the foot of the bed like a big, warm cat. When Lireesa found them all nesting together the next morning, Lirath wiping away the sleep from his eyes with his chubby baby fists, she smiled for the first time in a long time, her normal restrained melancholy overpowered by their tangled mess of limbs and yawning faces.

Liadrin falls asleep to that memory, burrowed in her blanket to stave off the cold. Several hours later, she wakes with a sharp inhale to the sound of a reedy voice, Salandria's, drifting out of her bedroom. She bolts upright, but the house is otherwise silent and still, no sign of a threat, and her pounding heart slows.

"Where's Liadrin?" the girl whispers in Thalassian.

"What?" Valeera croaks, her voice as thick as the Common tongue she speaks. Liadrin sits up quietly, straining her ears to hear. She hadn't expected Valeera to speak, or do anything but vanish at the sight of a mysterious child.

Salandria switches languages seamlessly-- apparently her private tutoring _is_ worth the gold-- and repeats, "Where's Liadrin?"

"I don't-" There is a rustling sound and a groan, as if Valeera attempts to sit upright, "I don't know."

"Are you her friend?"

"I don't know," she moans.

Salandria's interrogation is relentless. "What's your name?"

A pause. "Valeera."

Liadrin feels like she should interrupt, but Salandria seems to be handling herself and she's committed to allowing her supervised independence. And, in her current state, Valeera appears to be far more meek than morally corrupt, and poses no danger to the child in front of her. She sits up on the sofa, and remains silent.

"I'm Salandria. Will you get me a glass of water?"

Liadrin hears the sound of glass scraping on wood. "Here," says Valeera, her voice thick with sleep and liquor.

"I want my own."

"Then go get your own."

"I can't reach my cup."

There is a another moan, then Valeera rises, the bed rustling as she shambles to the kitchen. In the moonlight, Liadrin can barely see the top of Salandria's blonde head over the countertop, pointing assertively to a shelf over the sink. "There. The red one."

Valeera reaches up to retrieve a glass, her stomach bare for only a moment as the baggy shirt rides up, fills it with water from the sink, and hands the cup to Salandria. Neither of them so much as glance to where Liadrin sits in the living room.

"Thank you," says Salandria after she guzzles the whole thing. Liadrin purses her lips. Salandria drinks water like a camel-- not at all, then all at once-- no matter how many times she asks her to stay consistently hydrated. "You have to tuck me in now."

"What?"

"I had nightmares. You have to tuck me in."

Valeera sways, one hand on the counter to steady herself. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and her head dips low, wincing in exhaustion and nausea. She hoarsely whispers, "Okay."

They pad across the tile floor to Salandria's room where there is a creak of bed springs and a whispered commotion. "No, you sleep on the floor," Salandria says in the commanding voice she uses when being particularly mulish. "My bed's too small for both of us."

Valeera wordlessly whines, but Liadrin hears another rustle of fabric and the thud of a pillow dropping to the carpet. Liadrin stifles a laugh at Salandria's meager generosity. She remains on the sofa, listening with a reluctant smile on her face, surprised by her own giddiness at their interaction. The house is silent again for several long minutes, and she sinks into the cushions, wondering if they've fallen asleep after their brief detour through the kitchen.

Her mind wanders. There are other Sanguinars in Silvermoon, but the surname is common and not necessarily indicative of Valeera's kin. She would have to check the genealogical records to verify any connections, of course, as last names were a mercurial concept to most elves: husbands took their wives', wives took their husbands', they hyphenated, they combined, they selected something new altogether.

She closes her eyes, crosses her arms, and grins to herself, recalling how she used to prod Vereesa at her almost-surname. Had Gadanis not taken his wife's name, Windrunner, they could have all become something far less dignified.

_Ranger-General Vereesa Treesap. How absurd._

She drifts off again, still smiling faintly, until her ears twitch toward a shuffling sound. Salandria wanders the house, obviously looking for her, and when she finds her on the sofa she pads forward with a concerned frown. She sits on Liadrin's feet, and pats at her leg.

"Liadrin, something's wrong with your friend. She won't stop shaking."

"She's probably cold," Liadrin says gently.

Salandria frowns, "I gave her a blanket. She's shaking and crying a little bit, and I can't fall asleep."

Liadrin has only been drunk enough to quiver and weep once in her life when she was very, very young, and the experience was more than enough to keep her permanently from rum forever after. She remembers the hopelessness of it, the unsteady, clammy nausea and the pickaxe in her brain, and the way her hands trembled until she balled up in her bed and wept. Vereesa had done the same in the next room over.

She sighs and withdraws her feet. "Go to my room, bedbug. I'll be right there."

Salandria hugs her briefly before scampering away, and Liadrin hears the tell-tale _flop_ that she's flung herself onto the large bed with wild abandon, far too energetic for this time of night. She rounds the corner to Salandria's room where Valeera Sanguinar is curled pathetically into herself on the floor with a stuffed bear in a petticoat for a pillow, Lady Ursula Tenderpaw, and a child-sized blanket barely covering her body. She shakes and sucks in unsteady breaths, her ears pinned low in misery.

Liadrin tilts her head at the pitiful sight, worried that Valeera can't bring herself to stand again, not even to crawl into an empty bed just above her. She kneels beside her and Valeera's eyes fling open, puffy and wet, and her lip quivers in helpless frustration, humiliated. Liadrin doesn't ask this time- she's certain Valeera would refuse her help now that she can speak again- but scoops her up like before, holding her tight against her chest, still covered with Salandria's small blanket. She doesn't resist. They do not make eye contact or speak, and ignore each other entirely despite the warmth of their pressed-together bodies and the way Valeera's cheek shudders against her sternum, the corner of her lips flush against her skin, close as a kiss.

Liadrin carries her back to her bedroom, where Salandria is making an effort to occupy the entire massive bed, and says, "Scoot. We can all fit if we squeeze."

Salandria slides to the far edge at once, watching their outlines curiously in the darkness. Liadrin lowers Valeera to her previous location near the glass of water and waste basket, the warm spot now vanished, and tucks her in again with the comforter and collection of blankets. She crawls slowly into the bed, wedging herself between them, rolled onto her side with her back to Valeera's, careful to leave a gap between their bodies.

Salandria settles too, still taking up more space than Liadrin and Valeera combined, but extends one tiny hand to rest on Liadrin's forearm. The child sprawls out wherever she sleeps but some part of her always maintains contact, some anchor point on Liadrin when she feels nervous. It takes a few minutes for Salandria to fall asleep, but she snores gently, obviously tired from her unexpected late night.

And Salandria was right: Valeera whimpers softly into her pillow, as if she can't control the mournful noises that form in the back of her throat. The bed shifts beneath her weight as Valeera rolls to the other side, facing her but maintaining the space between them. Beneath the sheets it's warm and still for a long moment, silent except for light snoring in front of Liadrin and the soft, plaintive mewling behind her.

Then she feels the tremble of Valeera's knuckle against her back, the touch timid and fearful with none of her patented bravado, and Liadrin wills herself to remain still. Valeera's body shakes from the cold and the drink still ravaging her system, but her fingers lightly press into the muscles of Liadrin's shoulder, as if to feel something steady and strong when everything else spins around her, off-balance.

Liadrin doesn't turn around-- she might frighten Valeera away and undo all of her progress; she might run instead of rest-- but she slowly reaches her hand behind her and takes Valeera's trembling one, wrapping it around her waist. She hears Valeera's breath hitch, then release, and she presses herself flush against Liadrin's back as if the wall between them has crumbled to dust. She squeezes her tightly, desperate for contact, and slides against Liadrin's pillow until they share it, crying wet, sticky tears against her neck. She can feel her hot, irregular exhales and the brush of her eyelashes as she sobs in a choked silence.

Liadrin closes her eyes, longing to turn around and hold her properly, but she knows facing her will mean embarrassing her, shining a light on her vulnerability, and Valeera would flee whether or not her body was equipped to do so. Instead she holds Valeera's hand between both of her own and presses it against her sternum, hoping she can feel her heartbeat, dependable and strong, and that it might soothe her enough to sleep.

The fragile moment solidifies into something stable, and Valeera's breathing evens out until at last she's asleep. Liadrin doesn't move, but holds her hand and relishes the weight of Valeera's body, finally restful, pressed against her back and legs like she needs to hold her to survive. Before she falls asleep, Liadrin wonders if it's a selfish thing to feel so warm and pleased that she's kept her safe for one night-- only one of many, when she should always be protected and tended and free-- or if tomorrow Valeera will only be able to resent her for the intimacy of seeing her weakness.

When Liadrin wakes in the morning, one half of the bed is empty. A pair of pajamas are folded on the wooden chair in the corner, and Valeera and her red dress are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who've left me kind comments for this long ass wlw fic that has turned into my full-blown hobby. I'm so grateful to everyone who's supported me and this story, and am still going absolutely feral for the fanart that's been drawn. I vibrate with excitement!!
> 
> IAH fanart and meme list (in order of appearance)  
> 1\. [Maiev](https://vice-vereesa.tumblr.com/post/619023195009384448/until-i-get-an-artblog-heres-a-floating-maiev) by [vice-vereesa](https://vice-vereesa.tumblr.com/) [(AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vice_vereesa) \- [Chapter 7](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671947/chapters/53643742)  
> 2\. Taelia and Anya by [DinosaurUnicorns](https://dinosaur-unicorns.tumblr.com/) [(AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/pseuds/DinosaurUnicorns) \- [Chapter 11](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671947/chapters/54615781)  
> 3\. Tubvanas by [LordoftheHymns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordeOfTheHymns/profile) \- [Chapter 15](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671947/chapters/55592200)  
> 4\. Windrunner Bingo by [siDEADde](https://sideadde.tumblr.com/) [(AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siDEADde/pseuds/siDEADde)\- [Chapter 25](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671947/chapters/59894959)  
> 5\. [Wedding Portrait](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858957) by [DinosaurUnicorns](https://dinosaur-unicorns.tumblr.com/) [(AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/pseuds/DinosaurUnicorns) \- [Chapter 27](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671947/chapters/61273231)


	31. Calia, Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna earn that Explicit rating today, teammates. Also, I said "oops i made myself sad" like 6 times while writing this chapter.

Calia didn't anticipate Derek back until very late, if at all, and hoped he would stumble straight to bed without feeling the need to describe the First Peers' wedding, _Jaina's_ wedding, in any detail. She had no desire to hear of it in any capacity, not of the dancing or the mingling or the gossip. Not of the brides. Though she once flourished in that environment, a prim, prepossessing princess with an easy smile and clever tongue, the ingenuity of her youth in Lordaeron had long since departed.

She is a dead thing now, and better off alone in her small apartment in Boralus, where no one disturbs her or expects her to do anything but exist on the periphery of society. Jaina and Anduin certainly do not know what to do with her, nor do the unified forces of the Light as a whole, the only one of her kind, a former royal with a very limited skill set and a kingdom that was wiped from existence. On still winter nights like this one, with a book in her lap and cold black tea in a cup on the table, she cannot decide what hurts her more about her predicament: her loneliness or her worthlessness.

Once, when she was young, a glittering dilettante and dignitary, only fifteen but so bright even then, her father commended her after a gala: how impressed his guests were with his model daughter, how pleased he was with her performance. She remembers the light reflecting off his blue eyes and the emeralds in his crown, and felt in that moment like she had a future, a purpose. It wasn't until later, when the Light reforged her into some gross approximation of a living woman, that she realized she spent the rest of her days chasing that sensation, and never found it again.

She doesn't voice these feelings to anyone-- it's none of their business and they'd have no help to offer her anyway-- but when she sits alone they wash over her in scalding waves, like the flush of embarrassment or the scrape of rough fabric against sun-reddened skin. The self-imposed pressure, the lingering expectations on her shoulders, now formless and fleeting, swallow her whole. She only allows this weakness when guaranteed absolute, undisturbed solitude.

And then there is a knock at her door, three times, sharp and hard.

She frowns, her half-moon reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. It is incredibly late in the night, and Derek knocks differently: he always introduces himself before using his key. She also doubts that a man as timid and inept as Thomas Zelling would seek her out alone, his orders to tail her be damned. She sets down her book on the theological implications of necromantic rituals, unfurls her pale legs from beneath her on the sofa, and rises, wrapping her floral silk robe more tightly around her waist. She wears nothing beneath it; her body runs too warm to suffer that discomfort in the privacy of her own home.

Calia opens the door with a neutral expression, a bored regent more bothered by the interruption than the hour. A burst of icy air weaves through her loose blonde hair, thick with hovering snowflakes that swirl around her ankles. Lilian Voss leans in her doorway, her conceited, lopsided smile painted on her face.

"Didn't get an invite to the wedding?" she asks without preamble, her voice raspy and low.

Calia stands statue-still, blocking the entrance to her apartment. She quells the twinge of annoyance in her stomach and appraises the rogue, one thumb casually looped beneath the strap of her suspenders. She wears a tight navy suit tailored to her lithe body, her hair slicked back in a high bun, a far cry from the disheveled mess of a woman beneath her staircase and her roaming hands two days ago. An ember of longing fills her body, thick and heavy like warm honey. She knows why women like Lilian visit under the cover of night.

Calia stares back, her face unmoved. "Why are you here?"

"I'm going to be in the area more often. Figured I should let the resident harbor district slum queen know," she smirks.

A prickle of suspicion tingles at the back of Calia's mind, the niggling sensation that Sylvanas Windrunner is not done tormenting her, that Thomas Zelling failed his spying mission and now a far more capable rogue has been officially sent in his place. But as she stares back at Lilian's mocking face, frank and challenging, she thinks, _What sort of dreadful spy knocks on her target's door at three in the morning to declare her intentions?_

Calia blinks the thought away. She knows little of Lilian Voss, not nearly as much as she would like considering their rapidly converging social trajectories, but the image of her pushing Zelling out of harm's way beneath her staircase is etched into her memory, a protective hand on his shoulder throughout their tense conversation, ignoring that Derek's pistol was trained on her face with the same consideration one would give a buzzing fly. No doubt she lingers in Boralus for something more mundane than a mission; she likely wants to help Zelling reconnect with his living family here.

"Back to beg for more?" Calia asks.

"I don't recall any begging," Lilian says with a smile. "If you wanted to come, you had only to ask. To the wedding, that is."

"I had no desire to attend, and was having an enjoyable evening until you interrupted it."

Lilian's pale, shining eyes linger on her wire-frame reading glasses and the lines of her thin, flowery robe, open wide across her pale sternum, her sole scar uncovered, before they trail down to her bare feet. When they flick back up to Calia's impassive face, Lilian smiles in earnest. "I think we could get your evening back on track," she says, "if we find you something more suitable to wear."

Her words sear down Calia's spine. A fire pools in her stomach, the heat her permanent companion, and she recalls the thunderstruck fury she felt when Lilian left her, redressing in her soaked armor, all derision and aloofness.

"How impressive," Calia murmurs, "that your presumption manages to strike the balance between arrogance and unscrupulousness."

Lilian barks a laugh, her jacket bunching against the icy doorframe. "Unscrupulousness? I see you're putting that royal education to good use, mocking the woman here to fuck you."

Calia's stomach clenches at her coarseness, at the jarring, candid delight of it, and she is, for once, thankful she doesn't have to breathe: there is no abrupt inhale to betray her desires. She can feel Lilian's predatory gaze on the knot of her robe and the blonde hair on her shoulders, and knows there will be no begging from this woman. There will be none of her skewed games or groveling: no worship, no compliance, no control. Only equality, measure for measure, and a lump forms in her throat at the terrifying notion that she still craves her. 

Lilian tilts her head, "Where are your manners, princess? Am I invited in or not?"

A burning roils in Calia's core, her face empty and distant. She was left wanting and hungry and unfulfilled-- she was left _lonely_ \-- and this trite, ugly creature inside of her rears its head and she could call it an oversight, a slip up, but she is far too meticulous for that sort of lazy lie. She has a keen head for numbers and figures and this equation is easy to solve: she has already lost the battle by not casting Lilian away at once; she has already betrayed her hand.

She has lost her own game, and quietly sinks into the desperation of a woman who has not been touched since she died, who lives in debilitating fear, in agony, that she cannot and should not feel a lover the same way she did before, that she is resigned to a life without ecstasy or connection, that she will never catch the future she's chasing, and has never deserved it in the first place. She has not allowed another woman's hands on her body since her death. She has not allowed her own.

Calia keeps her face as still as marble and steps away from the door, turning back to her quiet living room with her half-read book and half-finished tea. She says, "You're a scoundrel, not a vampire. Shut the door; you're letting in the cold."

Lilian huffs a laugh as she follows at her heels, softly closing and locking the door. She says, "'Scoundrel, hellion, rogue.' I know you know my name; you've said it before. You can just call me Lilian."

Calia half-turns to face her and murmurs, "I will call you what I wish."

Suddenly, there are cool hands on her hips, and breath ghosting against her ear, and Calia goes rigid. Lilian presses against her back and whispers, "You will call me by my name, Calia Menethil." 

She slides her fingers around the silken belt of her robe, deftly untying the knot in the front, leaving the fabric to drape open on either side of her body. Calia cannot control the shiver that runs across her chest.

Lilian touches only the sides of her robe, scarred fingertips grazing the silk as if asking for permission to enter. She asks, "Are you cold, Calia? I know a trick to warm you up, but only if you want it."

Calia bites down the obscene urge to turn and take Lilian's face between her palms, to kiss her thoroughly and impulsively and achingly. She feels cool fingertips brushing the ladder of her ribcage, running along the silken path of her open robe and she realizes in a flash of consternation that she has begun to swallow deep, heavy breaths.

Lilian's fingers release the silk, resting instead on her shoulders before delicately grazing the warm metal wiring of Calia's glasses, slowly sliding them over her ears and off the tip of her nose. She hears their frame click closed behind her.

"Tell me what you want, Calia," Lilian says, her lips grazing her ear.

Anger and shame spark brightly inside her and she snaps, "I want you to stop _fucking_ talking."

Before she can finish the thought, Calia is spun by the hips and dropped gracefully to her knees, straddling Lilian's lap as she sits on the sofa. They sit face-to-face, Calia lasciviously spread before Lilian, who gazes at her with a minkish grin and half-lidded eyes, obviously pleased with the presentation. Calia's glasses rest folded in the top button of her blouse, safety tucked away as Lilian's hands slide up her thighs and the plane of her stomach, rising up her sternum and over her shoulders, gliding the robe off of her body and onto the floor. Lilian sits up against her, their chests flush and lips so close they could kiss.

Calia inhales and turns her face away before their lips meet, and Lilian hums with amusement-- she recognizes Calia's apparent rule-- taking hold of her jaw with one hand and exploring her body with the other. Calia's arms bracket Lilian's head, clutching the back of the sofa, not the woman beneath her, an inversion of the last time they occupied this space, and she begins to writhe against her lap, rapidly severing all the binds that hold her impulses in check.

_I've lost,_ she thinks, finding some measure of solace in the knowledge that she will be buried by this, finally laid to rest, pierced by something far kinder to her body than an arrow, but equally deadly.

Lilian sits fully-clothed, her body pressing to Calia's even as she grinds in her lap, a willing hostage beneath her palms. She plants hot kisses along her neck, as close to her face as Calia will allow, and slides her hands along the lines of her arms, pulling them down from the sofa, unhurried but firm. Lilian wraps Calia's arms behind her smooth, naked back, and threads her own arm over them, holding her securely in place by the wrists, unwilling to release her.

Calia pants as Lilian's free hand trails lower and her face lingers closer, lips parted, and they are cheek-to-cheek when she whispers, "At your Majesty's leisure," before she slides gently inside of her.

Calia rocks forward with a moan, unbecoming and uncouth, her lips dragging against Lilian's jacket collar, arms flexing uselessly behind her. She wasn't certain she could still experience such reckless pleasure, such an intoxicating loss of control, and Lilian watches her, enraptured, her lips kissing along the tiny scar on her sternum as she rides her hand, the frost of her loneliness thawing away against Lilian's rhythm. They are so close that she thinks for one fleeting moment that kissing Lilian would bind them irrevocably, two stars locked in orbit, and she rests their foreheads together as they move in tandem, in an intimate, mirror image of undeath.

But a sound streaks through her mind-- Calia hears herself whimper, her voice broken and small, an echo of her dying breath on the plains of the Arathi Highlands-- and the noise returns her fleeting senses like an anchor mooring a ship, suffocating, a reminder of who she is and what she is and the tip of an arrow against her heart-- long enough for her to heave, "Your Highness." She corrects Lilian with a haughty curl of her lips, even as she rides her harder, the tension in her body rapidly coming undone, "I was never the queen."

She waits for a twinge of irritation or embarrassment to cross Lilian's face, the mark of her misstep in this pernicious dance, but Lilian presses her lips together and simpers, "Oh, forgive me, Your Highness. I'm but a lowborn rogue. I'm afraid I only know how to fight and fuck."

Without warning, she releases Calia's arms and pushes her down to the sofa cushions. Calia gasps in shocked euphoria, watching as Lilian looks down on her, admiring her naked form still spread wide on her lap, wet and ready for the taking. Lilian sucks in a breath, brow furrowed in something like concern or tenderness, before she turns Calia over in one fluid motion, lifting her leg overhead and settling the other woman face down as if she weighs nothing. Lilian pulls Calia's hips up toward her lap, and drapes herself over the length of her back, right hand slowly tracing up her inner leg from behind, the silver metal of one of her suspender clips a burst of cold on Calia's flesh. 

"What if I want to be on my back?" breathes Calia, her mouth quirking into a petulant smile, cheek pressed hard against the cushion.

Lilian grazes her calloused fingertips up pale thighs, her other thumb brushing Calia's prominent hipbone. She rasps, "I don't give a shit what you want."

At this Calia's eyes close and she smiles fully, at this ownership and dominance, at the sudden swing in their dynamic and the abrupt, cathartic comfort she feels at having lost her power, exhaling deeply as her palms press into the armrest.

Lilian moves her hand, languid and rhythmic, and Calia rocks beneath her again, relishing her touch and the weight of her. She licks and kisses at her shoulder blades and up the back of her neck, sucking and biting harder as Calia responds to her, and when Lilian slides her hand out from between her legs, the whimper that escapes Calia's mouth is a despairing, wanton thing. Calia bites her lip, furious and embarrassed at her voice's second betrayal, but Lilian shifts her body, kneeling behind her, and murmurs, "I'm not done with you."

She slides back into her from behind, deep and slow, and Calia groans at the pressure and the furious heat of her own arousal, the light behind her eyelids incandescent red. Lilian places her other hand on the small of Calia's back, a comfort, a weight, her pace steadily increasing. Calia's outstretched arms press against the armrest, pushing back into the avalanche of Lilian's touch, desperate for more of her, prepared to worship, prepared to beg.

"Please," she moans. "Please, more."

Lilian obliges, for once without additional commentary, and slips more deeply into her, her left hand gliding across Calia's hip, reaching across her lower back and down her stomach to the wetness between her legs. Lilian sucks air between her teeth and hisses back reverently in Gutterspeak, "Gor vass, bora faersig."

The untranslatable words reverberate in Calia's skull, rattling around with the confusion of her tone and the sweetness she saw on Lilian's face-- and as she slips away she cannot help but think that she wants it, all of it, whatever _this_ is in her quiet apartment where no one visits and no one knows what to do with her. Lilian knows what to do, and she takes her to a place where she doesn't need a crown or a kingdom or control, and she is only a woman coming undone in stronger hands than her own. It hits her like a wave on the shore, an overpowering rush of pleasure and a burst of colors behind her eyes, and she tremors and cries out, arms curling protectively into her chest, covering her scar.

Lilian guides her down, attentively matching her pace, and slowly removes herself while Calia shivers, still panting, shocked by the revelations of her new body. She opens her eyes as Lilian slides away, and before she can brace for her mocking smile and cutting words-- Calia begged, after everything it was Calia who begged for it, but she would gladly repay the favor; she yearns to touch her cool skin again-- Lilian places her hand firmly over Calia's lips, as if silencing her. She leans down, closing her pale eyes, and kisses the back of her own scarred knuckles.

Calia freezes beneath her, eyes wide, exposed and weak and terrified of whatever this admission is. Lilian removes her hand slowly and she rises to her feet, eyes hooded as she looks down at her one final time. They both breathe heavily, as if standing on the dance floor after the music stopped, out of place and out of words.

Lilian turns in silence, and walks out the front door without a backward glance. And this, to Calia's turbulent, unbeating heart, is somehow worse than her last departure. 

* * *

The pajamas are more comfortable than Sylvanas anticipated. She sits in her living room, self-consciously wrapped in the burgundy set, wearing the fleece robe and slippers to cover her feet. She stares at the rapidly dwindling fire, her mouth twisted and mind muddled, unable to parse through the labyrinthine feelings about her wedding day. There have been entirely too many emotions today and she wishes to retire to her chambers, to close the door on the world and relish the blessed silence.

But her bedroom is occupied. Jaina shifts and twists in the sheets, her cough, raw and dry, pierces the silence every time she readjusts. Sylvanas remembers how her own muscles would twitch and relax before sleep, especially in the recovery period after a ranging expedition, when her plush bed in the Spire had never been more comfortable, and how she could hear Jaina do that too, her rest frequently interrupted by her illness.

The dark circles cast shadows beneath her blue eyes, deeper and heavier as time went on, a growing landslide that culminated in the quiet of their shared room when Jaina called her name. Sylvanas wanted to help her. She only wanted to help her.

But her memory of that dreadful day in the study violently resurfaced: when she held Jaina against her will, when she was a monstrous creature touching her skin and binding her body and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror. Jaina was just as flushed and frightened in their bathroom, clutching at her unbuttoned, lacy gown, and Sylvanas could never begrudge her those emotions; she had touched her far too many times today and now, without an audience, it was inexcusable. It was an accident that her skeletal fingers touched Jaina's back: she'd never meant to, but the buttons really were impossible to slip through their loops, and she was terrified to break anything of Jaina's.

_How she shuddered,_ she thinks, ashamed. _Her skin was so warm. So much warmer than mine_.

Sylvanas reminds herself that Jaina had no choice and, like everything else in this marriage, it meant accepting Sylvanas' help whether she wanted it or not. She crosses her arms, brow furrowed, and the robe bunches up around her forearms. She thinks of the assertive way Jaina grabbed her hands for the Fisherman's Knot, unafraid and committed to the ruse, taking them into both of her own like she hardly registered their vile appearance, and she deflates at her pity. They must both make sacrifices, but Jaina's list is far longer. 

The fire crackles in the hearth and Sylvanas shifts her weight on the sofa, wringing her hands. It is rare for her to leave them uncovered by gauntlets for so long, but she said she would wear her pajamas and so she _would_ , self-consciousness be damned. Jaina had seen them up close earlier and held them between her own palms, bound by the white ribbon, and she'd said nothing and hadn't flinched, and Sylvanas considers all of this a small victory. Not so great as her gift-giving-- Jaina had been genuinely pleased by it, her lips pulled into a smile that was authentic and youthful and invigorating-- the book was a rousing success that still floods Sylvanas' body with warm satisfaction.

She felt Jaina's heat melt into her when they kissed, her fever permeating the soft skin of her lips, radiating the same way when they danced, their steps together unrehearsed but fluid. She was surprised by Jaina's grace, and her willingness to let Sylvanas take the lead. Though, technically, even that was her decision.

The first time they strode to the dance floor Jaina had said, "You lead. I'm sure you're more practiced at that role."

"I'm more than adequate either way, but you reveal yourself, Lord Admiral." Sylvanas smiled-- she distinctly remembers smiling, and how Jaina's blue eyes searched her face like she perused the cover of a strange new book that she still wasn't certain she wanted to read-- and lightly placed a hand on Jaina's waist. "This arrangement is only palatable to you if you have the illusion of power. I see it must be your choice to be led by the hand."

"Are you psychoanalyzing me, Warchief?" Jaina rolled her eyes, resting her left palm on Sylvanas' shoulder. "I'll spare you the trouble: that's the truth of the matter for everyone, including you. Now dance pretty for the cameras."

"Another command," Sylvanas grinned as she pulled them into the melody with a practiced step, and said, "Is this how you govern your Navy? Ordering around your sailors like abused servants?"

"Only the recalcitrant ones," Jaina said. The cameras flashed behind them, and Sylvanas hardly noticed.

The dance floor was teeming with life and strange pairings, and far more willing participants than she initially anticipated. Anduin and Arator surprised her the most: her nephew had been annoyingly positive when he thrust himself upon her in the Lovers' Quartet, making small talk and smiling in a coy way that reminded her greatly of her father and youngest brother, and she gave him monosyllabic answers when no other words sprang to mind. She pushes down the memories of Lirath and his easy way with strangers, and how Arator voiced his very clear intent to get to know her better now that the war was over. He said he was proud of her, in those words, open and unabashed, and thankful for what she'd done in bringing peace to Azeroth.

Sylvanas' ears lower, her hands curling into fists, and she recalls the agonizing lump in her throat when he looked back at her. _How strange to be moved by this boy I don't know. My own kin, Lirath's ghost._

She blinks hard and uncurls her hands. Dwelling on those memories wouldn't serve her.

Vereesa and Thalyssra Eles danced as well, more than once, and she was glad for it. Thalyssra was a highly sought-after peer, powerful but reasonable, and Vereesa needed no more trouble day-to-day. She saw Alleria dance too, with Shandris Feathermoon each time, far at the edge of the wooden floor, presumably seeking some respite from the Light users around her. She doesn't know what she expected from her elder sister when they spoke-- an accusation, a plea, jealousy-- but curses the fox blood inside her for the sensitive twitch of her lip at the sight of her happy in another's arms, even if those arms belonged to the Sentinel-General. She shoves those questions and concerns away too, a problem for another day.

Whatever Alleria is now, she had returned alive from venturing alone to the Spire, apparently unscathed, a task that had nearly killed Sylvanas and Jaina both. Sylvanas clenches her jaw. She'd have given back the necklaces if she'd known her sisters were so sentimental and idiotic about them. At least Vereesa had the good sense not to attempt a solo outing to the Ghostlands, not that Sylvanas would have allowed it for either of them.

Suddenly there is a knock at the living room door, and she scowls with a tired exhale. She shouldn't have worn the pajamas.

She rises quickly, her senses on edge, as she didn't expect a late night caller. In the back of her mind, she idly hopes Jaina remains asleep. Behind the door Nathanos stands before her in his black suit, apparently sober again, his red eyes too wide and fearful to even take in her clothing.

Her heart sinks into her stomach as he says, "Come quickly, Dark Lady. It's Clea."

Terror seizes her mind, a sensation she thought she'd long ago repressed, and they sprint downstairs. Nathanos leads her to the Rangers' dormitory on the ground floor of Grommash Hold. They burst through the doors together and Sylvanas stops short at the scene before her: two bodies lay on the tile floor, Clea beside a night elf Sentinel, both dripping wet and still wearing their dresses from the wedding.

Clea's small body lays prone on her back, one hand reaching out for the woman at her side. A black bruise blossoms above her breast, tendrils coiling out of what appears to be an arrow wound. The other woman, the kaldorei, is barely conscious, her lips tarblack with a pool unnatural vomit beside her face, and the same black tendrils pulsating around her lips. Cyndia presses her bare hands to Clea's wound while Marrah kneels beside the night elf, uncertain of what to do for her. Behind them Kalira stands in shock, her blonde hair tousled, a white sheet wrapped around her body. Sylvanas sees no sign of Anya or Alina.

Water pools beneath her on the floor, but as soon as Clea's red eyes flit to Sylvanas', she gasps, "Naga."

Sylvanas tenses, the single word a blaring klaxon in her mind.

"Don't speak, Clea," says Cyndia in a shaky voice, pressing down harder on her wound.

The night elf retches, blackness pooling out of her mouth and down her neck. Sylvanas feels a pinprick of recognition in her mind: she knows this kaldorei woman, one of Shandris Feathermoon's Sentinels, a huntress named Nhemai. She was Clea's lover before the wars, before Arthas, a lifetime ago. Marrah used to mock them for their height difference.

"Report," says Sylvanas. Her voice is as hard as her mother's swords.

Marrah, still in her formal black gown, stands at attention. "Clea and Nhemai were walking the docks. They saw a something in the water, a retreating naga scout, and dove in after it. Together they ripped off its head. A second naga scout shot Clea when they climbed out of the water, and that's when Cyndia and I came upon them. Nhemai was sucking the poison out of Clea's wound and lost consciousness. It might be Priestshood. We carried them back here."

Sylvanas gazes down at them, calm in the face of the news. She asks, "The second naga escaped?"

"Uncertain, Dark Lady," Marrah says. "We sounded the alarm to alert the patrolling ships and saw them give chase, but I don't know if they captured or killed it."

Nhemai groans, her green hair still soaked with icy water from the harbor, and she trembles on the tile floor, from the chill sinking into her bones or the poison in her stomach, Sylvanas cannot discern.

Sylvanas turns to Nathanos, "Find a healer. A Light healer."

His red eyes widen, racking his brain for where to search. "We don't-"

"Wait," says Kalira. She bolts from the Rangers' main room, her sheet trailing behind her like a cape.

Sylvanas removes her fleece robe and kneels beside the Sentinel, draping it over her shivering body. She regrets having nothing else to keep Clea warm, but the cold won't kill her the way it could easily kill Nhemai. She orders, "Nathanos, find more blankets," and he runs from the room.

Wildfire thoughts cycle through Sylvanas' mind: _Nhemai can't die here; it could start a war. Shandris would certainly blame me, no matter my efforts to save her. How did the naga know about the wedding? How had their combined defenses failed them so despicably?_ And then, an uglier thought surfaces, suspicious and seething, _Priestshood, like what was used on Maiev Shadowsong. Had she fought the naga too, or is someone else using Azshara's forbidden poisons?_

Sylvanas' head whips around to the sound of quick, clacking footfalls; Kalira, still wearing only her sheet, drags a tall draenei woman by the hand. The horned woman haphazardly tugs a shirt down her abdomen, her hooves noisy against the tiles, and her eyes dance nervously from face to face as they all look up at her in various states of disbelief. It takes Sylvanas a moment to register two things: the draenei is Yrel, the Alliance's darling paladin, and she had very clearly been dragged directly from bed. Kalira always did prefer muscular women.

Nathanos bursts through a door beside them, his arms piled high with blankets. He dumps them onto Nhemai, throwing some toward Clea, and freezes at the sight of Yrel. "Huh," he says.

"Go wake a Dark Cleric for Clea. She needs healing," Sylvanas tells him. Nathanos obliges, backing out the door, his bewildered eyes still fixed on Yrel.

Cyndia's blonde curls fall into her face as she reaches for Yrel with one hand and Nhemai with the other, "It's Priestshood. I think she ingested it trying to get it out of Clea's wound."

Yrel releases Kalira's hand, barely cognizant of her own place in their bizarre tableau now that she has someone to heal. "Gods," she breathes. "I need- I need honey. And thyme, th-the herb." Kalira darts to the kitchen at once. Yrel points at Clea, her voice ragged with half-tempered panic, "Tell her to stop breathing. It spreads in her blood. We need to contain it."

Yrel kneels beside Sylvanas and hoists Nhemai upright, the two women roughly of a height, but the Sentinel's head lolls to one side, blackness still pouring out of her mouth. "I'm sorry," says Yrel before she sticks a finger down Nhemai's throat and the night elf lurches forward, retching again. "We need to get this out of you. All of it."

Sylvanas rises to her feet, moving out of the way. Healing has never been her forte. She stands beside Marrah, who side-eyes her pajamas, but thankfully senses that now is not the time to point them out. Sylvanas' ears twitch. She would undoubtedly hear of it later.

She asks, "How many civilians saw this exchange?"

Marrah's mouth twists unhappily, "At least three. It was dark, but they know something was in the water and it attacked."

Sylvanas' eyebrows raise. _Then the secret's out._

Kalira comes back with supplies, raptly following Yrel's orders as she kneels between the prone women. Cyndia smears honey on a sprig of thyme, pressing it to Clea's wound. Clea writhes in unnatural silence, taking her orders not to breathe seriously. Yrel pats Nhemai's back as she dry heaves, apparently unable to purge herself further. The black veins still coil around her lips, but her spit is clear again.

_Idiot Sentinel_ , Sylvanas thinks, her face forlorn and thoughtful. _You survived the wars and Teldrassil, and nearly died in Orgrimmar sucking poison from the body of a Dark Ranger._

Priestshood couldn't permanently kill an undead despite the agony it caused; Clea's heart hasn't beat in thirty years. But a second thought bristles in her mind, a tender thing she finds herself unable to choke into submission-- she blames the fox and the unfiltered emotions of her wedding day, the interactions with Jaina and her family and the roiling fear of the nagas' attack on her friend-- she feels a soft gratitude for Nhemai and her noble stupidity.

"She needs a Life healer, a- a restoration specialist," Yrel fixes her eyes on Sylvanas, "and your Ranger needs an undead healer. I'll hurt her badly with the Light if I try."

"I have called for the Cult of the Forgotten Shadow," Sylvanas reassures her. Yrel nods, still holding Nhemai against her chest, her eyelids fluttering closed. Her lips remain stained, a black, abnormal shadow on her blue skin.

No doubt all signs of the naga's presence are long gone from Orgrimmar, but Sylvanas would be remiss to not send troops. She turns to Marrah and says, "Send a contingent of soldiers to clear the streets of civilians. Establish rotating shifts until I say otherwise. Sweep the docks."

"Yes, Dark Lady," Marrah says. She leaves with a final look to Cyndia, who offers her a tense smile, her hands stained red with Clea's blood. She passes Nathanos at the door, who returns at a clip with four groggy Forsaken clerics trailing behind him.

"Heal her," he tells them, pointing at Clea.

The four of them take in their surroundings in various states of abject terror: Kalira wearing only her sheet, a draenei and kaldorei beside an obsidian puddle of vomit on the floor, Sylvanas' burgundy pajamas. She stares at them icily and they lower their eyes back to Clea, wisely choosing not to address anything but their patient. Clea winces but stills her trembling body as the clerics gather around her and Yrel explains the nature of her injury, and Cyndia, ever tenderhearted, gathers up her own pillows for Nhemai, now completely unconscious.

"Stay with them, and keep Clea and Nhemai together," Sylvanas quietly tells Nathanos. More loudly she says, "Our guests from the Alliance will be treated with respect. Give them what they need. Come find me if you get news. I have work to do."

Sylvanas stalks away from the healers, mentally composing letters as she climbs the stairs to her rooms. One for Shandris in Lor'Danel, a notification of Nhemai's injury. One for Anduin, his warning to dispatch additional forces around the coasts of the Eastern Kingdoms. One for Katherine Proudmoore, a request for information from her daughter's troops.

When she returns to her suite the fire has burned down to ash, and all is silent but for the steady sound of Jaina's breathing from the bedroom. She debates waking her, but dares not interrupt a rare restful slumber. Instead she hopes Jaina will feel recovered enough by morning to handle the news that their wedding had not been as safe as they previously believed. Sylvanas stares despondently at the embers for a moment longer, then reaches for her pen and begins to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative title: tfw you hate your undead body and get interrupted while wearing your jammies, pt. 1&2


	32. Anya, Shandris, Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I updated my Chapter 1 A/N and am posting it here as a reminder too: If you feel the urge to leave me unsolicited negative feedback, including criticism of my writing or complaints about my departure from canon Warcraft lore, please stop. I write as a hobby and publicly post for free, and find comments like that both rude and demotivating. I love all comments that express your support, but please keep unprompted negative opinions to yourself. They do not help me.
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who's been supportive throughout the progress of this (increasingly long) fanfic. It keeps me motivated and makes me incredibly happy, which is exactly the vibe I want. Please enjoy the rollercoaster of Chapter 32. ❤️

Taelia's apartment on Mariner's Row is small and clean, if somewhat busy, cluttered with knickknacks on every open shelf, stuffed between military history books and the occasional partially-melted candle. These gifts from her friends range from colorful seashells to intricate rope knots to a statuette of the silver anchor of House Proudmoore, and as the morning light filters through pale curtains, Anya thinks it's quite nice that Taelia values each of her little treasures enough to put them on display. 

When they arrived the night prior, Anya hung up the white rose bouquet, Sylvanas' bouquet, to dry. She wrapped it with twine and strung it to the ceiling above the headboard of the bed, laughing as Taelia hoisted her up, poorly balancing on the mattress. When they finally fell- Anya doubts the accuracy of this word, but she's not foolish enough to spurn such a gift- Taelia gently set her down on the comforter, careful to protect her head from the wooden post at the foot of the bed, and laid beside her, brown eyes shining.

Now Anya rests on her back against the pillows of Taelia's bed, one hand threaded through brown hair, the other resting gently on her bare arm. Taelia sleeps soundly against her chest, cheek pressed to her sternum, warming them both with her body heat beneath the sheets. Through the windowpane she hears the muted caws of the gulls outside, fighting the blackbirds for their breakfasts on the icy streets below.

"It's quiet," Taelia had said the night before, one little ear pressed against Anya's silent heart, her pink lips swollen from kissing and being kissed, from smudging Anya's lipstick in the Lord Admiral's quarters and above deck beneath the fireworks and again on her own blue comforter. She smiled and said, "I like it."

Anya could not help the softness in her own voice, or the fearful question that rose up in reply. "You do?"

She hadn't been with a living woman since her death and, while she felt generally confident in her appearance and abilities, she also lamented her distance from the call-and-return of two heartbeats side-by-side. She remembers that sensation with Loralen, and remembers its loss just as keenly.

"Mhmm. And I like that you don't get too hot." Taelia slowly kissed the pale skin beneath her collarbone, as if relishing its coolness against her lips. She murmured, "You're like the cold side of the pillow."

Anya giggled, a giddy, stupid laugh that she thought she could better contain, but Taelia's brown eyes reflected the glow of her red ones and she didn't feel half as embarrassed as she should about it. "Then lay down," she said. "I'll be your pillow."

Taelia smells like fresh soap and milk and a little bit like pilsner, and Anya breathes deeply of it though her body doesn't need the oxygen. She craves the scent of her and comfortable weight of her body, surprised by how easily she fell asleep with Taelia wrapped in her arms. She doesn't feel like an empty vessel or a toy soldier, like she's worth more than the spying and violence that fill her days. She holds Taelia just as well as Taelia held her the day before, safe and still, and it seems like a vibrant, stolen moment which she feels, at least momentarily, like she deserves. 

Taelia shifts slowly against her chest with a soft grumble. One eye peeks open as she says, "Good morning."

The curls in her brown hair have all tumbled and flattened out, half from its natural tendency to straighten and half from Anya's fingers working through it. Taelia's hold around her waist tightens and she throws one leg over both of Anya's, effectively trapping her in bed.

"Good morning," Anya smiles.

"Did you sleep well?" Taelia asks.

She tugs down Anya's undershirt, kissing the lavender skin beneath. Unfamiliar, tingling heat fills Anya's body, and she can only blame part of that on the woman beside her. "A little bit," she says. "More than I have in a long time."

"A little bit, but more than usual?" She feels Taelia smile as she kisses her again. "How many hours is that?"

Anya readjusts, and slides one knee between Taelia's legs, relishing the small noise she makes in response. "Maybe three hours?" she guesses, her voice low.

"Not enough," Taelia says, lightly shifting her hips, increasing the pressure on both of them. "You could stay. Take a nap with me."

Anya kisses her cheek and the corner of her lips, grinning and shifting beneath her, "You just woke up."

"What can I say? You're a good pillow," breathes Taelia. "I like being on you."

"I like you being on-"

There is a sharp knock on the front door of the apartment, so sudden and loud that they stiffen simultaneously, vigorously headbutting each other.

"Auuughh, sorry," Taelia moans, rolling to one side as Anya presses her hands against her own aching forehead. "I've got a hard head."

"Wow," Anya blinks, her vision returning, "apparently, I do too."

Taelia groans and slides out of bed, haphazardly pulling on black trousers. "I'm so sorry. I'm not expecting anyone, and definitely didn't _want_ to be interrupted-"

"It's all right," Anya says, rising and reaching for the pajama pants Taelia had given her. Only the shirt had managed to find its way onto her body the night prior.

Taelia kisses her again, quick and thoughtless, before rushing to the door. Anya breathes her in deeply, intoxicated by her easy sweetness. 

The front door opens with a creak, and Anya's ears twitch as Alina's voice filter through the apartment, silvery and casual, "Hi Taelia. I hope you had fun last night. Is my cousin still here?"

"Your cousin?" Taelia asks.

Anya sighs, making her way to the living room where Alina wears a long sleeve blue gown, not the black one she wore yesterday, with her light blonde hair loose about her shoulders.

"Yes, Anya. My cousin. Your," Alina taps her nails against the doorframe, " _date_? I don't know. Oh, there she is!" She waves delicately. "Hi, Anya. Looks like you had a nice time."

"How did you get this address?" Anya asks flatly.

"Lucille gave you up, I'm afraid. Lady Proudmoore knocked on our door and said I should go back home. She didn't say why, but I'm not about to ask if she doesn't want to say it, and Lucille was very hungover, but _very_ cute, so I could have stayed all day, you know, and I assumed you could too-"

"Alina," Anya punctuates her run-on sentence, knowing well that Alina never would.

"Yes? So I thought I would come get you and let you know, and we could portal back together."

Goosebumps prickle up Taelia's bare arms from the chill wind outside, and Anya wraps one arm around her waist, lightly pulling her back to the warmth inside.

"Come in," Anya says. "Let me get my things."

"Oh, yes! Come in! I'm not thinking today. Terribly rude," Taelia says. She lowers her voice and earnestly asks, "Are you really cousins?"

Anya smiles in spite of herself and Alina poorly hides a smirk behind her hand, waltzing into the living room with an appraising eye. She could undoubtedly appreciate the tidy living living space, though it was a touch small for her preferences. Anya bites her tongue: Alina has champagne tastes and a lemonade wallet, but would live in a castle if given the opportunity.

"Yes, by blood," Anya says. "We were only twenty years apart, so we practically grew up as twins."

That was, perhaps, an understatement. Anya and Alina looked so similar as children that if they swapped clothing their own parents wouldn't notice without direct scrutiny. Granted, the moment Alina inevitably opened her mouth, the illusion was ruined.

"Twenty years," Taelia repeats wondrously.

Anya feels a twinge of self-consciousness at her own age, or what would have been her age if she hadn't been killed. She wonders if she should have had that conversation with Taelia before now, but she doesn't know the protocol for her situation. Prior to yesterday morning she wasn't certain there was a situation to be had at all. She could ask Alina, who would have some stupid quip about aging like a fine wine, or Sylvanas, who would just frown uncomfortably and walk away. Nathanos, somehow, might have better advice on the subject.

"Don't worry your little human head," says Alina. "I'm older."

"Huh," Taelia says, chewing the age gap in her mind.

"Is Lady Proudmoore well?" asks Anya. Fear prickles at the base of her skull that Katherine would send Alina home without explaining the need for her sudden departure. She wonders if something happened with Sylvanas and Jaina, and hopes most fervently to be wrong. They seemed almost happy at the reception.

"She seemed pensive, but otherwise unbothered. Not half as hungover as Lucille," says Alina. "Still, we should probably go." Her red eyes slide from Anya to Taelia, their bodies side-by-side, as she reaches for the doorknob. "I'll give you two a moment. It was good to see you, Taelia."

"You too!" Taelia replies as Alina disappears outside.

Anya turns to her, brushing her thumb against her soft, flushed skin of Taelia's cheek. "I'm sorry I have to go," she says. "I don't want to."

Taelia rests her arms on Anya's shoulders, interlacing her fingers behind her head, and softly kisses her. Anya leans into her, parting her lips, her fingernails digging lightly into the firm muscle of Taelia's lower back. Their tongues meet, warm and languid, for only a moment when Taelia pulls away with a rueful smile.

"You have to go," she breathes.

"But I don't want to."

Taelia smiles again, wider this time, light and bright as the morning sun. "You can come back, when I take you out on a proper date. Or just, whenever you want."

Anya kisses her again, more chastely this time, exhaling a smiling breath against her lips, before peeling her body away. She retrieves her dress and heels, not particularly interested in wearing either, but settles into the shoes on her feet with a sigh. Walking the Boralus docks barefooted seems a dreadful idea.

Taelia watches her, eyes dancing with mirth, and asks, "Would you like some real clothes?"

"No, I accept my fate," she says, draping the black dress over her arm. "And I like your pajamas."

"You'll have to bring them back sometime," says Taelia.

"What will you give me if I do?" 

The words pour out of her like water, flirtatious and flowing, and she revels in the way they make Taelia blush so effortlessly. Anya isn't coy or coquettish, not like Alina or Marrah or Valeera, but Taelia glows from her attention, her affection; she shines like sunlight and warms Anya's skin. 

Taelia crosses her arms, face carefully still despite her prevalent flush, "I have a few creative rewards in mind."

"You'll have to show me next time," she says, her fingertips grazing Taelia's arms as they wrap around her back. She stands on her tiptoes and plants another kiss on her lips, safe and held, as protected as she was in the Warchief's windowsill, and as electrified by her touch as she was in the Lord Admiral's cabin. She thinks that she has learned some new feeling with Taelia in every location they've visited, and she wants to keep exploring- she has always _adored_ exploring- and with Taelia's hands on her body she has both a compass and a map and all the time she could ever need to sate her wanderlust.

"I'll see you later," Taelia mumbles into the curtain of her hair. "Hopefully soon."

"Very soon," Anya reassures her with a final kiss on her cheek. She turns to the front door before she can change her mind or allow the distraction of Taelia's deep brown eyes to delay her a moment longer. 

She steps into the brisk air outside where Alina stands across the street by the wharfs, idly watching the fishermen below, several of whom eye her with a jarring combination of suspicion and fascination. She raises an eyebrow as Anya joins her.

"Took you long enough." Her exhales condense in front of her face like fog, "Nice outfit."

Anya rolls her eyes with a scoff before vanishing, abruptly invisible.

"No," Alina drawls a whine. "Don't make me walk alone. You know I hate that."

"I will be right next to you."

"Not to everyone else! I'll just be some bedraggled Undead elf wandering the streets of Boralus."

"As opposed to _two_ bedraggled Undead elves wandering the streets of Boralus?" asks Anya.

"Yes! It makes a difference!"

Anya drops her invisibility, resigning herself to being seen in Kul Tiran pajamas and high heels.

"Thank you," Alina says primly.

Together they navigate the cobblestones, glancing down at the waterlogged wood of the docks where the fur-bundled sailors toss crates onto their ships, inspecting their nets. The winter breeze is briney with ocean air, sweeping across the green-tiled roofs behind them. The Kul Tiran city holds only an echo of the dark and daunting power of Drust's ancient forest, though she imagines Jaina Proudmoore seems equally at home in either. She took no time at all to find and spell that fox, and in a brutal storm, no less. 

"Is that Lucille's dress?" asks Anya as they walk.

"Yep."

Anya's lips quirk at one corner. "Have nothing else to say for once?"

"Nope."

"Did you..." the question trails off.

"Not yet. She drank too much so we kept it," Alina waves a hand before the rest of her words tumble out all at once, "appropriate. But she _definitely_ wants to and I _definitely_ want to, so we're _definitely_ going to. We slept at Proudmoore Keep in one of the guest rooms and she had absolutely no issue being seen with me. In the entry way-"

"Okay."

"In the hallways-"

"Alina."

"In the library-"

"Okay, _really_. I don't need to think about my cousin getting ravished by Lucille Waycrest in every room of Proudmoore Keep."

"Fine," Alina shrugs. "It was... refreshing, I suppose, to be wanted. She had no qualms with me being undead or Horde or anything like that. I mean, we always hear the horror stories, but Lucille couldn't keep her hands off of me. Even after Lady Proudmoore told us to go to bed."

They walk up the stairs to the Boralus portal hub, ignoring the suspicious, furrowed brows of the guards they pass. Anya has learned many things in Sylvanas' service as a Seeker of the Undercity, but one of the most useful is that if she walks with casual confidence, no one will stop her, even in fish pajamas and heels.

Alina holds the front door and feigns mild disinterest when she asks, "Did you?"

Last night Taelia cradled her head as she lowered her to the bed, her tongue warm and wet and hungry in Anya's mouth, and Anya arched her back to meet her chest, gasping as Taelia's thigh slid between her legs and they writhed for more friction, more contact, kissing for hours as they slowly undressed each other.

Taelia pulled back, breathless, as her thumb grazed the lower ridge of Anya's ear and they stared at each other through the darkness of her bedroom. She mumbled, "I still want to take you out on a proper date. This is all good, _really_ good, but I just want you to know. You deserve a proper date, and to be treated well, and I don't want you to think-"

Anya leaned up and pressed their lips together again, the pressure chaste and soft, and pulled Taelia down toward her. "You already do," she murmured, "treat me well, I mean. I'd like to take you on a proper date too."

Anya swallows thickly, passing a cluster of Tidesages in the halls. "No," she says. "But I want to. I really like her."

Alina smiles placidly at a human mage beside a portal, his wide eyes flicking between them nervously. "Grommash Hold, please," she chirps.

"Oh," he bobs his head. "One of the, uh, the new ones. The new locations."

"Mhmm," Alina absently replies. As he stares at her she adds, "You'll be seeing more of us. Isn't the peace wonderful? Go ahead now."

"Oh," he repeats, overwhelmed. Anya smiles ruefully at her cousin; the two of them were always intimidating side-by-side, and apparently her pajamas did very little to dull that effect on the unprepared public. Arcane power swirls around them as a blue portal flairs to life. The mage's scent is smoky like a dwindling campfire, less enjoyable and less powerful than Jaina's by a stretch, but he manages to transport them safely to Grommash Hold. They step through to the orange clay tiles of their own portal hub where an orc mage knowingly rolls her eyes at them.

"I'm proud of you," says Alina as soon as they're out of earshot.

"For what?"

"For trying," she says pensively. "It's not easy to try again."

Alina surreptitiously watches her face as they pass bright torches and thick Horde banners, concerned about breaching a sensitive subject. But as she walks through the halls of Grommash Hold with her cousin striding by her side, Anya thinks that she is happy, fully, truly happy, for the first time since Loralen's death.

"She makes it easy," Anya says, smiling very gently, "to try."

* * *

After the wedding, Shandris and Alleria went home to Lor'danel and spoke late into the night, decompressing and recounting and wondering after all that had happened aboard the _Admiral's Pride_.

Shandris' single dance with Lor'themar was brief but polite and diplomatic- that's all she could really ask for from any leader of the Horde- and he returned her to Alleria without comment after the peers had fulfilled their duty. She did note the way Grand Magister Rommath's eyes deliberately trailed over to them after Lor'themar returned to his seat, as if the comment he withheld about their apparent partnership had slipped directly into his own partner's ear.

Arator was endlessly kind, supportive to a fault, as if he immediately deduced Shandris' new place in his mother's life- which, she supposes, was fairly obvious given the way they touched each other and danced together, and the way Alleria made a point to introduce them despite the pain his Light caused her-- and he could think of no course of action but to welcome her into the fold.

Shandris tenses, and wonders what her parents would say about Alleria. She wonders how her parents fare at all. She shifts the navy blanket around her shoulders to better contain her own warmth. She's heard nothing from Baine Bloodhoof since Tyrande arrived in Thunder Bluff, and the urge to see for herself what her mother has become grows stronger every day.

Fear knots in her stomach at the distance between them, an empty, arctic sensation she's never experienced before, even literal planets apart. Shandris sits, brushing out her hair on the rickety chair near the writing desk, feeling as disconnected from body as she is her family. Her leg bounces anxiously.

"Are you still tired, Sentinel-General?" Alleria asks from her place on the pallet, fingers interlaced behind her head, her relaxed body language a direct counterpoint to her play-formality. 

Shandris' lips quirk into a smile at the attention. Alleria is a very distracting woman, particularly when she has something on her mind. "No, I'm feeling quite awake now, Void-General. Thank you for letting me rest last night. I know you had more _momentum_ than I did after yesterday's proceedings."

"Certainly," she sighs. "It's the least I can do for a distinguished dignitary such as yourself. Though, if I may, you seem a touch agitated." Alleria props herself up on her elbows, her oversized sleeping shirt dipping low between her breasts. Her voice lowers, "Let me help with that."

The first time Shandris saw Alleria on the pallet she was battered and bruised, hidden among the same pillows against which she now lounges. She remembers the void elves and their terrified chorus: _no Light, no Light, you'll hurt her!_ She promised them she wouldn't, moved by how much they cared, and she meant every word. She would personally see to her recovery; it's what a woman like Alleria deserved. Shandris feels heat rise in her stomach, the same heat she felt when she reached out to stroke Alleria's hair all those weeks ago, the urge to make sure she knew she wasn't untouchable, that comfort and gentleness should be familiar and allowed, and the air still leaves her lungs when Alleria looks up at her with grateful green-blue eyes.

Shandris sets down the hairbrush with a clack and feigns haughty disapproval, "Are you coming onto me, Void-General?"

Alleria lightly shakes her head, her tone equally formal, "No, no, you misunderstand, Sentinel-General." And then she licks her lips, bored of the act, and tilts her head slowly. A wave of golden hair slips from her shoulder and she says, "I was hoping _you'd_ come on me."

Shandris exhales sharply despite herself; she's no temple virgin, but hadn't expected something so straightforward, so _lewd,_ from the woman in her bed. But then, Alleria makes no pretense of hiding her desire: she wants her now and wants her often, and that's how Shandris likes it.

"Sorry," Alleria smiles widely. "I didn't mean to make you blush."

"Yes, you absolutely did," Shandris laughs, rising from her chair.

"You're right. I did," Alleria's voice lowers, and she raises a hand, beseeching Shandris to join her on the floor. "You must be so frustrated, all wound up like that. Come sit." She eyes the blue pajama pants and adds, "Take those off."

She stares down at the blonde hair splayed across mismatched pillows, and her shining eyes, playful and seductive, and Shandris thinks, in spite of everything she and her people have survived, she is a very lucky woman to have ever glimpsed this side of Alleria Windrunner. Shandris glances down at her smiling lips, and her throat grows tight with anticipation and arousal.

"We don't have to do anything, if you're not in the mood," Alleria gently adds. "I just want you to know that I had a great evening with you last night, being on your arm and dancing with you. Not hiding. It make me feel better than I have in years. I wanted to make you feel good too."

Snapping from her reverie, Shandris drops the blanket and removes her pajamas at once, skin prickling in the cold of the tent, its small fire long ago burned down to ash. Her fingers are uncoordinated and clumsy in their excitement, and Alleria's eyes flicker at the sight of her eager and bare. Her tongue wets her lips again, lascivious with purpose this time. She smiles contentedly, and lays back against the pillows, languidly extending a hand, a second invitation for Shandris.

"You constantly make me feel good. But if I ever refuse that sort of offer from you, you have permission to cut me down immediately." Shandris takes her hand, their fingers intertwined, and joins her on the pallet. Alleria guides her down, leaving no room to question where she wants Shandris' body, until she's bracketing Alleria's face between her thighs.

She can feel her warm breath when Alleria exhales, "I'd like to cut you down right here, on this spot."

Her hands graze Shandris' skin, her stomach and breasts, and Alleria presses hot kisses to the inside of her legs like a prayer of thanks, the flat of her tongue a hymnal, moving up, always rising. Shandris stifles a moan, her back hunched in sudden pleasure, body curling down over Alleria's face, her elbows digging into the cold sheets between the pillows. She follows the rhythm of Alleria's tongue, her body moving of its own accord, until Alleria tears her glistening mouth away just long enough to pant, "Don't do anything, sweetheart. Let me do it. Let me do it for you."

And Shandris whimpers again, either from the pet name-- _she has never called me that before: sweetheart; I am her sweetheart--_ or the way Alleria plants a hand on her chest and pushes her back upright, she doesn't have the mental capacity to discern. Alleria is smaller but _so_ strong and desperately committed to her satisfaction; she can see it in her half-lidded eyes as they lock onto her own, hungry to witness her release, to taste all of her.

Shandris moans, weak to her touch, thrilled with Alleria's lust and control over her movement. She never yields that power; she's never had someone take it or even ask for it, to let herself be moved and rocked and supported by her lover. They expect that vigor from her, always strong, always hard, never needy and wanting. But Alleria places calloused fingers on her hips and moves Shandris where she wants her, pressed down fully onto her face and lips and tongue, and Shandris can do nothing but lean back and relinquish all control, elbows locked as she grips Alleria's shins, arches her back, and gasps into the cold air of their tent. 

The pressure builds inside of her so warm and full and she's falling apart, and Alleria catches her as her whole body stiffens and she pulls back, breathing a string of mindless profanities-- and Alleria forces her hips back down to her mouth, the beautiful mess that it is, not content, still hungry, and the thought alone brings Shandris back to the brink in an instant. She rides her face hard and quick, and the second time Shandris is so sensitive that can barely breathe, babbling nonsense as she pants, unable to form words at all.

When she releases her, Shandris rolls to the side, her body flooded with tingling warmth, chest rising and falling to catch her breath, the drum of her pulse pounding in her ears. Alleria wraps her arms and the navy blanket around her, kissing lines down her back and shoulders, and hums, "I'd like to start every day like that."

Shandris turns to face her, laughter on her lips, "I'd never get any work done." She takes Alleria's face between her hands, kissing her deeply, tasting herself on her swollen, pink lips. She closes her eyes, face buried in the warm crook of her neck, and lets herself rest, relaxed and safe. After some time- Shandris is too sex-drunk and languorous to know how long has passed- Alleria inhales and shifts beneath her.

"Did you say something?" she asks.

Shandris tilts her head up to look at her, planting a light kiss beneath her chin, "No, you gorgeous woman. I didn't."

"Mmm. I must have dozed off," Alleria says. "You know, we could stay in here today. I'm sure everything's fine. They'll survive a day without us."

Shandris smiles ruefully, her voice dropping to a huskier register as she presses her lips to Alleria's pulse. "We'll have to clear our schedules sometime, Void-General." Her tongue trails lower as one hand slides beneath Alleria's shirt, just grazing the curve of her breast. "I'm feeling suddenly energized, and I know for a fact my schedule is wide open for the next hour."

"Are you coming onto me, Sentinel-General?" Alleria breathes, her back arching.

"No, no, you misunderstand," says Shandris. "I was hoping _you'd_ be wide open for the next hour."

Alleria exhales a quick laugh, biting her tongue between her teeth. Her breathing grows shallow, "I'm afraid you've made me blush now."

Shandris tugs up her sleeping shirt, bunching the fabric around the dip in her neck, and admires the way Alleria spreads out beneath her hands, the muscles of her abdomen taut. "So I did," she smirks. "Let me help with that."

* * *

Jaina's fingernails dig into the sheets, bloodless and quivering.

Rhonin Roth frames the space before her, his face peeled into a monochrome grimace of terror, and he reaches desperately forward, shoving Jaina on the chest so hard she cannot tell where his force stops and the mana bomb begins, and she is falling, falling, falling through his last portal, through the waves of Fate's End, through the grain silos of Stratholme with death and arcane electricity raw in her bloodstream.

She bolts upright in an unfamiliar bed, a silent scream on her lips, her voice choked and missing. She gulps for air like a drowning woman, flailing for something sturdy, the wood of the bedside table, where she hunches to catch her wheezing breath, coughing deep in her chest. Her ears buzz, toeing the brink of panic, as her eyes dart around the dark room. She loathes waking up like this, though she supposes it's better than the nightmares that end with her sobbing, curled into herself, heaving against her own tears.

"Jaina?" Sylvanas calls through the door. "Are you all right?"

She inhales to reply but another cough lodges in her throat, and she winces at the roughness of it, holding her forehead with one hand. It was only a matter of time before Sylvanas saw her this way, fragile and dizzy, though she always assumed it would be from exhaustion alone, not illness, and she'd hoped it would be on a longer timeline than the first day of their marriage.

"Yes," she croaks. She doesn't even believe herself.

There is a long pause, then, "May I come in?"

Jaina swallows her embarrassment, not bothering to compose herself. Her skin burns and her lungs ache too much to care. If Sylvanas could remain so unimpressed while unbuttoning her wedding dress last night, then she could certainly handle the sight of Jaina's bare knees and tangled hair and the sweat pooling at the base of her neck.

"It's your room," Jaina says unhelpfully before coughing into her elbow.

The door swings open slowly and harsh, bright light pours into the bedroom. Jaina winces, _It must be later than I thought._ Sylvanas stands at the entrance in her burgundy pajamas, barefoot and robeless, shifting her weight from side to side self-consciously. Red eyes survey Jaina and the rest of the room briefly before turning back to the floor, content that there is no pressing threat to her safety.

Jaina wonders if she is somehow hallucinating. She didn't think Sylvanas would wear her pajamas at all, let alone anywhere Jaina could see them, and certainly not without the added protection of her slippers and robe. Thoughts bubble up in Jaina's mind like a pot of boiling water, delirious and nonlinear. She has the distinct impression that Sylvanas doesn't feel comfortable with people looking at her body or touching her directly, a strange thing for an elf, normally so comfortable in their own skin.

She supposes a violent death would change that for anyone. Vereesa told her before the wedding, "She can smile and laugh and dance. The Lich King flayed her soul, but she still has it."

And that was true; Jaina had seen it all last night: swept beside her on the dance floor, bickering at their table, draped in her Swan Feather Cape. She wonders what Sylvanas sees when she looks at her, if she can see anything but the coward who was too weak to stop Arthas Menethil, the woman whose failure cut a direct, brutal path through Sylvanas' homeland and an even deeper one through her soul.

Guilt burns through her again. _How often do I touch her skin? How often do I make her uncomfortable? Does she resent me?_

Jaina peels her bleary gaze away, fingers massaging her feverish forehead. She mumbles, "What time is it?"

"Just after one o'clock."

Jaina's eyes slide closed, disgusted with herself. She wasted the entire day when there was so much work to do. She sighs again, her throat burning.

"Something happened last night," says Sylvanas, folding her arms. Her voice grows cold and formal, the same tone she adopted when informing the Horde leadership of the bombing of Ironforge. Jaina's anxiety flares immediately, ears ringing, as she continues, "Naga scouted the wedding. One was slain by Clea and a Sentinel. The second was caught and slain by your Honor Guard. Your men sustained no major injuries. Clea and Nhemai Starseer remain in our care, poisoned by the Naga's Priestshood. The Sentinel-General has been informed but has not responded. King Anduin and your mother were also notified. I have increased the security around the waterfront."

Jaina's stomach clenches. "You didn't wake me," she says.

"No, I didn't," Sylvanas calmly replies.

Her broad shoulders are straight and proud, like the first time they spoke in Dalaran, before the Unification Treatise was even finalized, glaring at each other from across the long oak table. Her demeanor has shifted since then, but her eyes hold the same reckless, dangerous promise: _I will do what must be done._

Jaina does not shy away from it. She doesn't run from the fact that Sylvanas considers her a job now: another mundane task to manage like the polishing of armor or organization of meetings. And she must be seen doing it, an insult to injury, that no one may say she failed to uphold her end of the bargain.

Jaina hangs her head, pounding with stress and sickness, and she coughs again, unable to stifle the crackling in her chest. Sylvanas disappears to the living room, returning with a pitcher and glass of water, this time with her fleece slippers on her feet. It was as if she'd come running the first time she heard Jaina wake and wouldn't make that mistake again. She hands the glass to Jaina, setting the pitcher on the end table, then takes two steps back, out of Jaina's space, and surreptitiously eyes the door of her closet.

Jaina follows her eyes and nearly groans at her situation. The Warchief of the Horde spent all day in her pajamas because she felt too uncomfortable to open her own bedroom door and risk Jaina's irrational wrath. She sighs, wheezing, "I will sleep with the door open so you have access to your armor in the future."

"You don't have to do that," Sylvanas replies, her mouth flattened unhappily.

"I didn't mean to alienate you from your own room."

"It's fine. You needed to sleep."

"I didn't need to sleep this much."

Sylvanas' eyes narrow, locked on the untouched glass of water. Jaina scowls and brings the glass to her lips, drinking as much as her burning throat allows, before Sylvanas is content enough to turn away from her to dourly place a new log in the fireplace. Jaina drinks more water, keenly aware of her dehydration, and watches her work. Her voice is scratchy when she asks, "Was the robe a poor fit?"

When stands to her full height again, Sylvanas' ears are low and her muscles flex with tension. "No," she says. "It fit well."

"But you didn't like it."

"I _did_ like it," she snaps.

"But you're not wearing it-"

Sylvanas hisses, "I put it on the Sentinel, who was quite _literally_ freezing to death and choking on poison that she very _stupidly_ sucked out of my Ranger, and then she promptly vomited everywhere, but I'll have you know I liked that robe for all of the _two hours_ I had it, until it was absolutely ruined."

Jaina blinks at her, unable to process both the impact of her words and, more perplexing, her annoyance at having lost her new robe.

She turns in a huff before Jaina can coherently respond, stalking into her closet and rummaging around with the door closed, furiously dressing in her armor and hood. Jaina sinks back into the mattress, laying on her side, the sheets still wet with her sweat, and rests her head on the pillow. She kicks the comforter away, too hot to use it as a blanket, despite the chilliness of the room. Her brain is simply not working yet, whisked to a froth from her fever, and she listens to herself rasping for a moment longer before her eyes close again.

_Sylvanas likes to give her clothes away_ , she stupidly thinks, recalling the Swan Feather Cape resting on her own shoulders not once but twice at the wedding reception. She wonders if she gave her robe to Nhemai Starseer with the same slow consideration and stubborn tenderness. _She's selfless,_ Jaina thinks, _even to those who hate her, to those who have every right to hate her._ Perhaps it was a ploy, a small act of contrition to be seen atoning; its real purpose only to tell Jaina what she did, to lull her into some sense of appreciation or perceived improvement. Another of the Banshee Queen's famous mind games, kindness solely for the the sake of the good press.

Jaina chews her lips, frustrated with her inability to place Sylvanas in a sensible compartment in her mind, even more discouraged with herself for being bothered in the first place. Hazily, she considers all the work she's failed to accomplish today, wasting away her morning and Sylvanas' too, when there was a literal attack on the peace the night prior. Her mother and Anduin could manage, but she never missed work, even on the battlefronts. Not even on her death bed.

Even laying down, her head spins. It bothers her that Sylvanas looks so much smaller in her nightclothes, as if unnerved by the comfort and domesticity that have been taken from her for so long. She looks young and wide-eyed, like she did after their il'amaren. Jaina clutches a pillow against her chest, uncertain and untethered and vulnerable like she still holds the loose lace of her wedding dress to her throat and Sylvanas unbuttons her, lips parted, long fingers working deftly. She'd asked for permission to continue, and Jaina gave it freely-

She coughs again, suddenly freezing, and pulls the comforter back over her legs. Her eyelids peel open, angry and unwell, and she gasps at the red eyes intently watching her. Sylvanas stands before her near the closet door, fully dressed in her hard, imposing armor. Her brow is furrowed beneath her cowl, staring at the woman in her bed.

"Perhaps," Sylvanas slowly offers, as if dipping a toe into cold water, "you should rest more."

Jaina rolls away from her, humiliated by her weakness, bewildered that they're having this conversation at all. "Fine," she rasps. "Wake me at three."

"All right." She adds, "Just ring the... Abnar Button if you need something."

"Leave the door open," Jaina mutters into the pillow.

"All right," Sylvanas says again, far more quietly this time, before she leaves the Suite entirely, her footsteps soundless on the carpet.

Jaina curls into the bed, hiding her burning face, and falls asleep wondering what it means that Sylvanas obeyed without retort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my plug for all works [DinosaurUnicorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/pseuds/DinosaurUnicorns) related! If you haven't already seen her incredible [IAH fanarts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858957/chapters/62828746), they're now attached to this fic via Related Works. And, because I'm spoiled, she also made an IAH Bingo card. We do not recommend you turn this into a drinking game, as this chapter alone got me a double bingo.


	33. Valeera, Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked Chapter 30, you're going to love this! I'm just kidding, buckle up for angst.
> 
> TW: non-explicit mentions of past sexual assault in Valeera's POV, mentions of attempted suicide in Sylvanas' POV

The taste of stale liquor lingered on Valeera's tongue for the better part of the day, sour and unpleasant and powerful enough to make her gag long after she'd emptied her stomach of its contents. When she returned home to Stormwind, dizzy from using her Hearthstone, she fell asleep on the cold tile floor of her apartment's bathroom, her formal red dress too tight to be comfortable as she clung to her toilet. She bitterly thought, _I should have kept the pajamas,_ before closing her eyes, replacing all of her laments with a pounding headache.

When she woke again in the mid-afternoon, still trembling from her hangover, she staggered to her feet, hunching over her sink to drink water from the tap. She groaned, slurping from her hand, and pushed away the memory of a bossy child with a red cup and a blanket that was much too small. Valeera cringed at her reflection in the mirror: tangled blonde hair framed a gaunt, dehydrated face, half-imprinted by the unforgiving grooves of her bathroom tiles. Shame washed over her, ugly and consistent, at the damage she did to her body and reputation. At her weakness, her vulnerability, its presentation to others. Liadrin worst of all. Her stomach churned again and she swallowed it down.

Goosebumps prickled her skin as she stripped herself naked, far less gently and modestly than her dress had been removed the night prior. She slowly lowered herself to the sheets, squinting through the haze of her splitting migraine, and she thought that somehow this bed was not quite right- too small and hard and _empty_ \- but she dug her nails into her pillow and fell back into a fitful sleep.

She wakes in the evening just before the sun sets, an orange glow between her blinds, thirsty and bitter about her carelessness. The scent of bourbon seeps from her pores, mixed with the clean fabric smell of Liadrin's laundry detergent trapped in her hair. Valeera has never been so drunk before, so out-of-control, and she hoped to drown her words and tears in the shadows of a merciful blackout. She weakly rises from the bed and runs a shower, stepping into it before the water is warm, resting her aching forehead against the frigid wall.

Despite the image she projects, she has next to no alcohol tolerance and rarely drinks. And, cruelest of all, her memory is far too keen for her own good.

She remembers it all: a lurching, drunken kiss, sloppy and impetuous, the darkening of a pale face and angry green-gold eyes. Murmured explanations and gentle hands, and being carried to bed when she didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve any of it; she should have been left on the ship, out in the cold. Someone would have picked her up and stolen her away, and what did she care if it was some stranger? Strangers bring her to bed in different ways and close the gap between their bodies and she understands that proximity, that distance. They know her value and don't ask questions, and they certainly don't undress her on the edge of their bed only to clothe her in pajamas and tuck her safely beneath the sheets. 

Valeera sobs as the water pours down the back of her neck. She has wept more in the last two weeks than she has her entire life and she _hates_ crying. No one deserves it, least of all her. She hates all of these sensations, and that she can't fully blame them on the drink still in her bloodstream. She hates the sudden guilt of her compulsions and she hates her failure to maintain her distance; she hates how she was pulled into Liadrin despite all her hard work avoiding her gravity. 

_You don't need to do this_ , Liadrin told her.

And she sunk into the dark place that protects her when she cannot flee, and she is too ashamed and afraid to do anything but be still, and weep. She _does_ need to do this, and Liadrin with her safe home and her bold daughter and her warm bed could never understand. She does because it's _proof_ that she's fine and no one else controls her, her history does not define her, and she can close off all the parts of her that hurt. She can amputate and separate, she can remove what she doesn't like. Pleasure and desire are immaterial: she seeks the emptiness afterwards, empowered and disempowered and unaffected. Valeera would rather feel nothing at all.

She loses track of time standing in the shower, but it's dark outside when she turns the water off and wipes the condensation from her mirror. She towels off and changes into pajamas- the day is wasted, and her tasks can wait until tomorrow; she's more likely to get herself killed in this condition than to learn anything of value for SI:7 or the Uncrowned- before she slips to her front door, cracking it just enough to slide her hand into the mailbox on the wall.

She deals in information, and keeping up with the news, whether or not it includes hard facts, is part of her job. She sorts through four newspapers, one of which is glorified celebrity speculation and little else of substance, and blearily pours herself a glass of water. She guzzles it, perusing the headlines, each of them covering yesterday's wedding. The newspapers are Alliance-slanted, largely focused on Jaina and Anduin and the impact the ceremony will have on the peace treaty as a whole. She would have to ask Lilian or Anya for a copy of _The Orgrimmar Times_.

For all her sleep, Valeera is still exhausted and hungover, and the words in the paper's small print slip away from her. She longingly eyes the Gnomish Numbers puzzle on page six, normally a favorite hobby of hers- logic games are far easier than words; relaxing, mundane fun, if embarrassingly domestic- but knows she won't be able to complete one of those at the moment either. Valeera contents herself by mindlessly flipping through the papers for interesting pictures.

The front page of _The Stormwind Gazette_ features a rather intimate photograph of Jaina and Sylvanas kissing in front of the altar at the bow of the _Admiral's Pride_ , their hands bound by the white ribbon of the Fisherman's Knot, flanked by Anduin and Liadrin, both of whom are smiling. Liadrin's head is tilted as she watches the brides, and her bright red hair falls across one shoulder. Her pearly white teeth shine through smirking lips, playful and amused. Valeera frowns and harshly turns the page.

The other Alliance dignitaries are covered in less detail, though there is a small photo of Vereesa and Thalyssra Eles dancing, apparently quite happy, and an editorial she doesn't have the mental capacity to read cites them as one of the more successful peer pairings thus far. The page beside them is full of candid shots of the other peers: Tess Greymane scowls at Jastor Gallywix at the dessert table, Talanji Veyzan and Moira Thaurissan conspire over a bottle of wine, Gelbin Mekkatorque and Thrall Og'Durotan mingle with Jaina at the head table. Valeera herself is only featured in the background of shots, lingering near Shandris Feathermoon and Alleria Windrunner or splayed out at the bar for another cocktail.

_The Dalaran Daily_ is much of the same: more pictures of Jaina on Sylvanas' arm, swallowed by her feathered cloak, and multiple editorials on the inner workings of their relationship behind closed doors. According to "anonymous inside sources" their relationship is generally favorable, professional, and nonpartisan. Valeera manages her first grin of the day, a weak, spiteful thing, and thinks, _If only their anonymous source had seen them screaming at one another on the balcony of the Violet Citadel._

The paper features a number of editorials on the notables who were missing: Turalyon Deighton and Baine Bloodhoof, in particular. They don't mention the absence of Tyrande or Malfurion at all. No one is deluded enough into believing the other kaldorei royals would sign the treaty.

_The Dun Morogh Chronicle_ seems less focused on the relationship of the brides and more focused on the High King's choice of repeated dance partner. The front page photo features Anduin closely dancing the Lover's Quartet with Arator, their chests nearly pressed together, while Jaina and Sylvanas maintain a more formal distance beside them. Valeera herself danced with Lilian during that song, increasingly drunk and belligerent, watching from the corner of her razor-sharp eyes as Liadrin Sunthread stiffened at the table full of blood elves. Some part of Valeera meant to make her jealous, she thinks. She meant to make her _angry_ , though Liadrin had done nothing wrong, and that is the root of the problem when she allows herself to ponder it.

Valeera's mouth twists and she sets aside the reputable papers, opting for the gaudy purple header of _The Gossip Mill._ The trash rag's think pieces have thrown all attempts at tasteful commentary to the wind. One article implies that Jaina and Sylvanas had some sort of illicit love affair prior to signing the treaty, framed with a picture of them leaning into each other at the head table, as if whispering flirtatiously. Why else would they jump straight to marriage, the article says, much less one that required them to live together?

Valeera scoffs. The journalist had obviously never met either of the famed brides: it would take mere minutes to recognize that they're both martyrs, irrationally obsessed with out-suffering the other.

On page three, she finds a picture of herself sitting in Lilian Voss' lap, a purloined glass of champagne in her hand, the slit of her red dress parting nearly to her hip. She and Lilian make a dashing couple, the Forsaken woman slick in her little navy suit and suspenders, but the caption- _Rogues of a feather sleep together?_ \- leaves something to be desired. The rumor could be useful, but any fool could see that Lilian was hardly interested, even in the photograph. Her gaze is locked intently with someone over Valeera's left shoulder, eyes concerned, if not outright fearful.

_Liadrin_ , she thinks. Valeera wonders if she saw the photos this morning too, and if they made her want to drown in the bathtub the same way.

She turns the page in misery, and her breath hitches at the sight before her. There is a large picture entitled _Ladies in Red_ emblazoned across the page. Liadrin Sunthread stands rigid and unyielding, frowning as she cradles Valeera's unconscious body in a bridal carry like she weighs nothing at all. They are surrounded by three concerned faces: Jaina and Vereesa, who nervously watch Liadrin, and Lilian, who stares straight at the camera, displeased. Valeera herself is obviously comatose; her fingers desperately clutch the fabric of Liadrin's blouse, weak and clinging.

Valeera shoves the paper to the side, furious with herself for letting such trivial things cut her so deeply. A tear rolls down her cheek, and she wipes it roughly with the heel of her hand. She cannot help but feel that last night was a catastrophe of her own making, and she wishes she didn't remember the rest.

The sadness drains out of her, replaced by fatigue and apathy. Tomorrow she has work to do, meetings with Anduin, Flynn, and Shaw. And a visit to the Stormwind orphanage, if she has the time. They have the shared party for the little ones who don't know their ages or birthdays coming up in a few weeks, Verglas 15th, she thinks. It's one of the few celebrations for the orphans outside of Children's Week, designed to split the year and give them something to look forward to after the holiday season. She's fairly certain the date is the Orphan Matron's birthday too, another example of her selflessness that she shares it with the children in her care. Valeera would fund it and buy them all gifts; she would supplement whatever they needed. Many wallets are empty after the war, but not hers. Not for them.

Valeera stares out her small kitchen window, watching the snow fall outside. She would have been much better off in an orphanage; far better than the inhumane prison where they beat her in the dark for crying, or the labor camp where they sent her when she was strong enough to haul crates until her feet bled, or the Crimson Ring where they whipped her raw until she learned to kill. She never looked back. Her heart aches when she looks back.

_Salandria must be an orphan of Silvermoon. Liadrin has no progeny and they look nothing alike_ , she thinks. _Though, the same could be said of Vereesa and her twins. Rhonin's red hair was so bright._

She wonders if Salandria knows her birthday, or if Liadrin bakes her a cake on some arbitrary date they both selected. She seems the type to make her daughter dessert from scratch.

Valeera shakily rises, returning to her sink for water. She drinks more slowly this time, her feet chilled by the tiles, and surrenders to the lost day. She returns to her room knowing that she won't be able to keep food down yet, no matter how much her body needs it. Her bed feels unfamiliar now, cold and empty like a hole carved into the earth.

Liadrin didn't hold her down or pin her, or even place her in a position that was difficult to leave. She was safe and warm, and could escape whenever she liked. Valeera closes her eyes and remembers the way she clung to her nightshirt and the heat of her skin, fingers trembling from the drink. Sometimes, when the worst memories resurface, she clings to her pillow that way, desperate and drowning in inescapable pain. She cannot outrun the way her pulse pounds, or the way her stomach constricts: tense, terrified, damaged. She cannot hide from herself.

Valeera's eyes peel open, hard with anger. She can't be around Liadrin. She doesn't want to face the shadowy things inside her, and wouldn't put her mess in Liadrin's life anyway, not after the glimpse she had of it last night. She won't let Liadrin see her again, not ever.

She carries too much shame inside her, all shattered and corroded. Valeera doesn't have a better nature to appeal to, and that sentiment is a waste of both their times.

* * *

Sylvanas looms in the open doorway of her bedroom at the prescribed time. The fire has burned down to ash and, with the curtains closed, the room is pitched in darkness. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, scowling at the lump of tangled white hair sleeping soundly on her pillows, a slight wheeze to her breath. She vaguely considers that it is ill-advised to wake a sick, slumbering Archmage, but orders are orders. Still, she positions herself half-covered by the doorframe. The last time Jaina startled awake she embraced her magic, and Sylvanas has no desire to be impaled by an ice lance. 

"Jaina," she begins. "It's three o'clock." She hears the rustle of fabric as the lump shifts, but says nothing in reply. Sylvanas leans closer. "I am waking you, as directed."

There is a deep cough, a groan, and another rustle. Sylvanas frowns, stepping into the room. She asks, "Are you awake?"

"No," Jaina moans. Her hand blindly slaps around the mattress until it lands on another pillow, which she drags over her face. Her muffled voice continues, "Go away."

Sylvanas crosses her arms. If Jaina wasn't so ill she would drag her bodily from bed, the same way she used to with Vereesa when she overslept for morning training. But another ugly cough racks her body, so raw and dry that Sylvanas winces at the sound. She sweeps into the room, refilling Jaina's water glass from the tap in the bathroom and relighting the fire with a new log.

Jaina's breathing evens back into a steady wheeze, her face buried under the pillows, one bare leg sticking out from beneath the purple comforter. Sylvanas peers at her from on her knees by the fire, idly prodding at it with a poker. _She's going to get cold with her leg sticking out that way,_ she thinks. Her eyes trail up the smooth line of Jaina's thigh, stopping at the hem of her silk nightshirt in Kul Tiran sage. _She should sleep in pants._

She nudges the log again, unafraid of the embers that pop and crackle in response, and turns away from Jaina's sleeping form. It wouldn't do for Sylvanas to touch her or the bedsheets, even in a feeble attempt to keep her warm. She wouldn't even do something that intimate for her own Rangers anymore.

Earlier that day she'd considered finding a healer for Jaina, and had even asked Kalira if the paladin draenei, Yrel, was still around. But Kalira informed her in no uncertain terms that, regrettably, her guest was not allowed to stay in bed all day, and had duties to attend elsewhere. She returned to the Vindicaar by portal after a steamy farewell kiss that Kalira described in agonizing, sordid detail until Sylvanas walked away with a glower.

Light magic is meant for broken bones and bleeding bodies, not infections and disease, and would do little to mend Jaina's illness. Life magic, restoration, would be far better suited to her needs.

She rises in silence for the study. The bookcases remain untouched, perhaps another indication of Jaina's extreme sickness: Sylvanas fully anticipated the Archmage would comb through her library, nitpicking and criticizing every book that didn't meet her standards. But Jaina remains too weak to work, too weak to even walk. Sylvanas sits at her large desk beneath the window, willing herself not to look in the mirror to her left. She has no desire to see her reflection, or to relive the memory of so viciously violating Jaina's space.

Sylvanas rifles through her reports, stacking them into tidy piles by priority. She doesn't know how to take care of Jaina, other than to leave her alone and clear her schedule. The woman is a marigold, like the kind her father once tended in his garden, bright and hearty and hale, who only needs to be left alone to bloom. As she places the report of blockaded trade routes in northern Kalimdor to the top of her pile, Sylvanas considers that she would be a far more finicky flower, something like an azalea with its unforgiving, needy demands. She remembers her father pouring vinegar into an azalea's soil once, and she reached out for him with her small little hands, _You'll kill it, ann'da!_

He didn't, of course, confidentially continuing to pour. Gadanis Windrunner took great care of his plants and his children, and he taught her that some flowers needed more acidic soil to bloom properly. _It's different and that can be scary_ , he said, always smiling, _but that just means it needs special care._

Sylvanas stares at her red eyes in the mirror, vacant and mournful. Her father's garden is full of bones and rot now, covered in dead leaves and the shambling footprints of the Scourge.

She returns to her paperwork with a sniff. She is surprised that Jaina's allowing herself to sleep at all, another admission of the magnitude of her sickness, all from hunting that stupid fox in the middle of a winter storm. Sylvanas would have to speak with Anya about humoring the whims of _Lady Jaina_ in the future. Her Ranger-Captain and Alina returned home mid-morning in various states of undress, their faces falling at once- Alina's with expressive horror and Anya's with cool detachment- as Marrah briefed them on Clea's injury and the shift rotation changes. No additional naga had been located near the city, but Sylvanas isn't naïve or optimistic enough to believe they've seen the last of them. 

Still, she has much work to do. After the pajama debacle of this morning, Sylvanas appreciates that the bedroom door remains open, both for access to her closet and for her study. She has always worked in relative silence, as much as one could find it in the Spire, and Jaina would undoubtedly inform her with no small amount of disdain if she ever grew too loud for her taste. She quietly gathers up some papers and envelopes, collects her reports, and leaves the room.

Shandris Feathermoon has already responded to her missive, and has made arrangements to visit the Sentinel, Nhemai, tomorrow evening. The woman woke shortly after lunch, trembling and dazed, but managed to keep down the glass of lukewarm water she was provided by the healers. Clea, who was not supposed to be moving, had crept into her bed in the medical ward, her pale arm looped around the night elf's stomach, pressing tightly to her side. The healers didn't approve, but Sylvanas waved them away with an impatient glower. Clea and Nhemai would be better off together than apart. She cared very little if Feathermoon and her Sentinels disagreed.

As she passes through the bedroom, sparing a final glance at the rat's nest of white hair, Sylvanas sourly considers that Jaina would be most displeased about her unfinished business with Feathermoon. But she has many questions, many accusations that would undoubtedly hurt them both when spoken aloud, despite their necessity. She'd hoped to delay a one-on-one until after the Reparations Council met, to soften Shandris, and to give Sylvanas more time to prepare. Few things in her life and undeath went to plan- the universe mocked her very existence- and she would have to take her lashings as they came. Her gaze lowers to the pale skin of Jaina's neck and she thinks with an anxious knot in her stomach that delaying her punishment any further is cowardly: criminals don't pass their sentence, sinners don't pick their penance.

Her sister's necklaces remain tangled in the bedside table drawer, another wrong to set right, even more difficult than the inevitable violence that would come to claim her one day. She doesn't know when Vereesa and Alleria will arrive, or if the distance between them will remain when they do, or how they could possibly make amends when words like _abandonment_ and _abomination_ are so freely thrown between them. She supposes they were at least civil at the wedding reception, though Alleria's defensive perimeter strategies remained as unsatisfactory as ever. Her eldest sister's talents were always far more apparent in the woods than the city, tracking and hunting in the deep forests far from civilization.

Sylvanas slips out the front door to the stairwell, flanked in silence by Alina and Cyndia, and amends her thoughts: Alleria was an adequate public speaker as well, at least when her husband gave her the chance to talk. A smirk tugs the corner of her mouth. She never liked Turalyon Deighton and his pompous zealotry, faction divisions aside, and Liadrin confessed the same when she learned of their marriage. Her smirk fades quickly. Alleria had apparently replaced him with Feathermoon, arguably the only person in the world _worse_ to have in her bed when it came to mending her relationship with Sylvanas.

_Of course she picks the Sentinel-General for her bisexual awakening,_ Sylvanas scowls. _She has tailor-made this situation to heighten my misery._

The Reparations Council meeting would be a tightrope walk of diplomacy, unsteady and tenuous from the start, and Sylvanas had no concept of the Alliance's demands, specifically for the displaced kaldorei. Her own list of priorities grew longer by the day, masterfully edited by Thalyssra before being presented to Talanji. Lilian Voss never had any comments, though Sylvanas suspects she might be saving her criticisms for a public venue. Like many rogues, Lilian is effective but difficult to trust.

As Sylvanas takes a seat at the head of the table in her meeting room, she purses her lips. She's not heard a report from Thomas Zelling in nearly a fortnight, and spying on Calia Menethil is apparently a waste of her time. The undead princess is a hermit, withering away in Boralus' harbor district. She has no need of Zelling's reports now, and his punishment for betraying her to the Alliance seems useless given the current state of things. She would call him off, and exile him to Kul Tiras or Ravenholdt Manor where his keeper hangs her hat. Lilian still cares to accommodate the sniveling Tidesage, though Sylvanas cannot fathom why.

Likewise, she's heard nothing of import from Thunder Bluff, but her spies report that the moon is dark and Tyrande says little. She hunts like a ghost in the day and sleeps beside Shadowsong at night, and Bloodhoof does everything he can to avoid her wrath. The trade routes to Mulgore reopened months ago, but the winter is harsh and they have too many refugees with too few homes, an ugly fact proven twice-over by the ongoing census. The same is true in overcrowded Orgrimmar, where the Forsaken cram into whatever open spaces they can find, desperately trying to avoid confrontations with the rest of the Horde. Guilt wells in her throat and she curses the fox blood: the blighting of the Undercity debilitated her people. Her gauntleted hands rest on the heavy wood of the table, still and contemplative. She gave the order to blight her home, empty and emotionless and hungry. She cared so little when she starved, and that apathetic clarity guided her decisions with ease and surety.

_Jaina would not let that happen again. She would have stopped me._ Sylvanas raises an eyebrow. _Might've even killed me._

Several leaders of the Horde file into the room one by one, joining her for an impromptu council meeting. She debriefs them on the night, lauds them for their good behavior at the wedding, and outlines her expectations for well-documented briefs on their peer meetings. Information is the most valuable currency, whether or not they're at war with the Alliance. She watches as Thalyssra demurely readjusts her dark blue robes. Sylvanas took particularly interest in her peer meeting, but the First Arcanist's report had been short and vague, unlike the dense academic tone of her usual documentation. Perhaps Vereesa's state of mind did not allow for much conversation, even if she seemed much improved at the wedding. She had not seen her younger sister dance and smile that way since Theramore.

Nathanos sits beside her in his Ranger Lord attire, arms crossed with displeasure. The man hates meetings despite always having something to say at them. He desperately wishes to count the wedding as his first peer meeting, and is not the only one who has privately expressed that desire. Sylvanas denied them all. They would meet properly, per the Unification Treatise, or they would suffer a discipline of her choosing.

She could make a slight exception for Nathanos, were he to show any interest in organizing a trip to Boralus with Katherine. Lady Proudmoore informed her in her letter that the Loyalist activity in Kul Tiras has been nonexistent despite the intel from Ironforge, but terrorists work in the shadows. Sylvanas knows the danger of assuming that no news is good news when it comes to slithering threats, and Katherine assured her that their security detail would not lag in the slightest. The Mother of the Fleet had no issue managing her role in Jaina's absence, staunch and adaptable as ever, but undoubtedly Jaina feels guilty for leaving that burden to her.

The meeting is dry and dull but informative, and the sun sets low over the Orgrimmar skyline by the time they finish. Sylvanas watches her leaders file out before returning to her Suite, sighing as she opens the front door. She'd hoped for one uneventful day after her wedding, a foolish wish in retrospect. She couldn't even get through the night without ruining her new robe, the fleece stained with black-poison vomit and flecks of Clea's blood. That disappointment struck her harder than she anticipated, very much by surprise, and she could only reason that her attachment to the clothing was born of having gone without anything but armor for so long. She had normalized a great deal of her discomfort.

Sylvanas starts. She is not alone in the living room.

"You didn't wake me," Jaina croaks. From the sofa closest to the fire, two eyes glare up at Sylvanas, accusatory and displeased above deep dark circles. Jaina sits in her nightgown, her hair still a mess, her bare legs and feet curled beneath her. She holds a steaming bowl of tomato soup to her lips, and cup of tea sits on the low table: Abnar must have been summoned during her meeting.

"I did wake you, and you pulled a pillow over your head and told me to go away." Sylvanas straightens her shoulders. "On top of that, you had nothing scheduled for today and your services were not required."

Jaina huffs, coughing slightly, careful not to spill her soup. She readjusts, stretching out her legs, and Sylvanas averts her gaze at once. She strides forward, ears low, busying herself with the fireplace again. She would have to speak to Abnar about always keeping them lit.

"How are Clea and Nhemai?" Jaina asks.

The women rested heavily when she saw them last, even Clea slept, Nhemai's face pressed to the crook of her neck, cautious about her arrow wound. Sylvanas reaches for the tinder and a match, and says, "They're recovering well. Shandris Feathermoon will be visiting her Sentinel tomorrow, though there's no need for her presence. We're providing more than adequate care in Orgrimmar." 

Jaina blinks, "Did you say something incendiary in your letter?"

Sylvanas turns slowly to face her, brow furrowed in disbelief. "Do you take me for some kind of fool?"

Jaina slurps her soup, eyes peering over the rim of the bowl, and says nothing.

"Your fever has dulled your senses," Sylvanas glares, retreating to the study to file her paperwork. 

"I would like to be present when Shandris is here," Jaina's hoarse voice carries through the open doors and Sylvanas grits her teeth, fangs peeking out from her lips. She remembers the hatred in Shandris' eyes in Dalaran, her stolid promise that their unfinished business would be resolved one way or another, that the suffocating ash of Teldrassil was never far from her mind. She remembers how Shandris slaughtered her previous Ranger-Captain, Areiel, a woman who was once fought alongside the kaldorei troops. Feathermoon may have smiled down adoringly at Alleria yesterday, but no amount of gentleness can change that she is a monster on the battlefield, and Sylvanas is owed a great deal of her fury.

She does not want Jaina to see what must happen next.

"You need to rest," she says, slowly closing her desk drawer.

"I'll be fine. If I am asleep when she arrives, then wake me," says Jaina, scraping her spoon against the soup bowl.

"Hmm," Sylvanas replies. She moves to the closet, absently debating whether or not the pajamas are a good idea this early. Knowing her luck the naga would attack her closet directly.

After a long pause, Jaina asks, "Will Alleria be joining her?"

Sylvanas closes the closet door and removes her armor. She does her best not to sneer at the constant bombardment of questions, but has learned that Jaina is never satisfied after just one.

"No, she will not," she replies as she reemerges. She buttons up the navy pajamas, glaring at her ugly, skeletal hands. She folds her arms, hiding them, as she returns to the living room. "It will be Feathermoon and two Sentinels."

If Jaina can maintain an air of casual nonchalance while in her skimpy pajamas, then so can she. This is her home, and she would not be outdone or forced out of her own space. Sylvanas reclines on the opposite sofa, shoving her bare feet beneath the decorative pillows, and glares at the fireplace. She ignores Jaina's overt side-eye, hoping to avoid suspicion or another salvo of questions. Instead of either, Jaina leans forward, placing her palms flat on either side of the sofa cushions, and rises unsteadily to her feet.

Sylvanas sits up too, mouth flattened in concern. "What are you doing?"

Jaina frowns. "I'm getting something to read."

"I'll get it," Sylvanas says. She doesn't wait for Jaina's inevitable protests, but swiftly returns to the bedroom. Jaina's bag rests on the vanity, a hardback book called _The Dragonfly Knight_ sticking out of its open zipper. She peruses the buckram cover curiously. Sylvanas hasn't read the novel before, though she hasn't read anything solely for pleasure in a very long time. There was too much work and research to do to indulge her own amusement. She grabs the book and retrieves the half-empty water glass from the bedside table.

When she returns to the living room, Jaina sits upright with her hands in her lap, her superlative posture a strange counterpoint to her otherwise disheveled appearance. She says, "I am capable of walking, you know." Sylvanas hands her the book without comment, setting the glass of water beside her tea, and Jaina adds, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Sylvanas says curtly, turning back to the study.

"What-" Jaina's voice catches, and she coughs into her elbow. "What are you doing?"

Sylvanas tsks, half-amused. "I'm getting something to read."

She doesn't turn to gloat but hears a beleaguered noise from the back of Jaina's throat, and the shift of her weight on the sofa. Sylvanas' smile fades as she surveys the rows of books for the particular arcane history she wants, _The Roots of Broken Crown:_ _Corrupted Lines._ She thumbs through the pages, written in dense Darnassian by a long-dead druid scholar, and her face constricts with inadequately buried agony. She remembers the looming silhouette of the ruined World Tree called Vordrassil against the horizon of the Lich King's domain, a cruel knife in the skyline of Northrend. She could see it clearly from the top of Icecrown Citadel as she drew closer to the precipice, closer to the end that never was.

The fates mock her. A clean death was pulled from her grasp twice over.

Jaina coughs from the other room, and Sylvanas closes the cover quietly. The book is on her list, and she wouldn't avoid it despite the hideous memories it called back to life. She returns to her place on the living room sofa, settling into her previous position on her back. Jaina reclines too, half-propped by pillows. She spares a brief glance at Sylvanas' book but asks no questions, as if making a point not to speak first. Sylvanas rolls her eyes, but begins her book without retort, her mind seamlessly translating from Common to Darnassian.

Three chapters into the book, Sylvanas' ears twitch at the sound of steady, crackling inhales. Jaina rests on her side, having slid down the pillows, white hair tumbling around her face. She is completely asleep, and her finger marks her place in her book. Her silk nightgown bunches up around her thighs as she curls into herself, lips parted from the labor of her breathing.

Sylvanas reads the story of her body, the droop of exhausted shoulders and the sweat glistening on her feverish brow. Orange firelight catches in her hair, flickering and shadowy like the fireworks over the harbor last night, almost as bright as Jaina's face when she laughed at Sylvanas' joke. She hadn't seen that before; it was a new anomaly for her to give Jaina any measure of joy, but she decided at once they they were better off as allies. In a world without the Lich King they would have _been_ allies, the Ranger-General and the Archmage, their hair vibrant shades of blonde; not white, not ash.

The streak of gold hair falls beside Jaina's cheek, all that's left of her from before the destruction of Theramore. She remembers how it matted with the gore of the Scourge when they went to the Spire, shattering wave after wave of moaning corpses, the floral scent of her magic overpowering the grotesquery of their rotten flesh. Then Sylvanas was awash with the wrongness of holding her upright, their bodies pressed together as she wailed, as she hurt Jaina when she shouldn't have touched her in the first place.

_I shouldn't touch her_ , she thinks again, wringing her hands. Even last night, she tried to be so careful with the buttons of Jaina's wedding dress, but still she touched her soft skin. 

The fire pops loudly beside her and she tears her gaze away, a shamefaced, guilty voyeur. Jaina mumbles and rolls to her other side, away from her, and her book slips out of her hands. Sylvanas swallows thickly and drifts away from her place on the sofa, backing away from Jaina, to read alone in the study, to avoid waking her at all costs. She holds her book in disfigured hands, and dares not risk being caught staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to [@vice_vereesa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vice_vereesa/pseuds/vice_vereesa) for the creation of _The Gossip Mill_. I couldn't help but steal it after it completely delighted me in her impeccable Sylvaina 3rd War AU, [Envelopes of Suspect Origin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23581342/chapters/56579473). Go read it right now if you aren't already! <3


	34. Sylvanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nhemai's a herbo and Sylvanas is having a real 2020 experience.
> 
> All jokes aside, I hope everyone is doing well and taking care of yourselves as much as possible right now.

The weight of unspoken things blankets the infirmary in an uncomfortable miasma, even as Shandris Feathermoon smiles down at her recovering Sentinel. Sylvanas watches them from the foot of the bed, arms folded, uneasy in her clothing. The black jacket is too tight across her shoulders, the white blouse too flimsy. It was the best Abnar could procure in a pinch on her unexpected orders, and she suspects the jacket was purloined directly from Marrah's closet.

_I ask only that you do not wear armor_ , Jaina said once, before their wedding.

Sylvanas shifts her weight, unfamiliar with the soft pressure of the boots. She did not wake Jaina when Shandris arrived in Orgrimmar that morning. They said very little to one another beyond a tense, stilted greeting, opting instead to walk in silence to the infirmary. But Shandris' eyes fix onto Sylvanas in quiet moments— cautious, patient, aggrieved— and Sylvanas does not look back.

Anya and Nathanos insisted they join her today, her tacit and alert, him with anxious aggression, face peeled into a sneer. She wishes, sometimes, that they would leave her alone. Isolation is easier than their involvement, lighter than the weight of their trust. Interfering with her plans will only delay the inevitable, and disappoint them both.

Yet Nathanos rushed to open the infirmary door for her as always, looking uncomfortable without his bow and knife, but she forbade weapons during the kaldorei visit. The healers cleared the room at once, the scent of iodine and golden sansam wafting around them.

Beneath the white bedsheets Nhemai and Clea remain intertwined and dozing. The color of Nhemai's lips has returned, more grey than the black-ink tendrils of two nights prior, her cheek resting on the crown of Clea's blonde head. Clea is the first to wake, red eyes jumping from Sylvanas to Shandris to the Sentinels flanking her, and she shifts, her gruesome stitches pulling, lightly running a hand down Nhemai's forearm to rouse her. As soon as her blue eyes open, Nhemai smiles in relief, her arm still shamelessly wrapped around Clea's shoulders.

"General Feathermoon," she weakly whispers.

Shandris slowly approaches and rests a palm on Nhemai's forehead, feeling for a fever. She spares a glance for Clea as well— _Does she remember her from before? Will she chastise her Sentinel for returning to her lover after everything that's happened?_ — curious but nonjudgmental. Shandris bears Tyrande's demeanor, her quiet acceptance of simple, good things. She does not see ulterior motives; the nape of her neck doesn't tingle with fear of potential betrayals. She sees only her friend, safe and happy, and a kind woman clinging protectively to her side.

Shandris pulls a strand of green hair away from Nhemai's eyes. "I heard you met a naga. I'm glad you fended it off so," she pauses, " _creatively_."

"Yeah," Nhemai sheepishly grins. "I know I look bad, but you should see the naga. I ripped its head clean off."

Shandris pats her shoulder and exhales a knowing laugh. "That sounds like something you would do."

Sylvanas lurks by the end of the bed, longing for her absent hood. There is nothing to obscure her face or hide the way her lips tighten unhappily as she stares down at Clea with her arms crossed, unwilling to touch her, showcasing her own inadequacies by merely existing. She is not that sort of leader, not that sort of person anymore. The bonds of physical touch shattered with her death and she wouldn't subject anyone to that discomfort again, not if she could help it. She quells the memory of the Fisherman's Knot and the il'amaren, of a wail and Jaina falling against her at the Spire, of dancing and the stubborn white buttons of her wedding dress. Jaina would suffer most of all for the sake of the peace.

Long ago there were sleepy campfire conversations with her Rangers, the watchstanders trading secrets in the growing darkness, the crisp scent of pine and smoke drifting around them. They would giggle and joke and plan their lives after the war: how Cyndia wanted six children but Marrah only wanted two, and Alina wanted no children at all but desperately wished for a posh little shop to call her own, even if she had no concept of what to sell.

She doesn't know what they want anymore. They have smiled more as of late, her Rangers, no thanks to her. At least circumstances have allowed a glimpse of laughter into their lives: dressing up Taelia Fordragon, dancing at the wedding, studying nautical history over a drink in the Warchief's Suite. Sylvanas swallows bitterly. Shandris Feathermoon doesn't have these problems with her Sentinels, these rare glimpses of joy in an otherwise bleak, oppressive environment. Her friends smile at the sight of her; she has never terrified them into silence for fear of her unreasonable wrath and reckoning. 

"How do you fare, Clea?" asks Shandris softly.

Her gentle tone and the direct address of her Dark Ranger makes Sylvanas prickle with jealousy, but she bites her tongue, wondering if she should have eaten again this morning or if that would have exacerbated her already overblown sentimentality.

Clea's eyes fearfully dart to Sylvanas before she answers. "I'm well, Sentinel-General. Better. Thank you for asking."

"She'll live," says Nhemai, smiling, "so to speak."

"Mmhmm," says Shandris. "Very funny. I think it prudent to leave you here for another night or two before moving you to Lor'danel." She coolly adds, "With the Warchief's permission, of course."

Sylvanas stares at the wrinkled bedsheets and curtly nods, unwilling to make eye contact. Shandris says nothing at her response, but turns back to Nhemai and asks, "Is there anything I can do for you while I'm here?"

"No, ma'am. The Horde has been kind to me."

Shandris hums thoughtfully, her jaw set hard. She spares a final glance at Sylvanas, sharp as an unsheathed sword, and murmurs, "As well they should."

Nathanos tenses beside her, his fingers twitching along the empty sheathe where he normally keeps his hunting knife. He carries the scars of Darkshore, the dead Val'kyr and Horde soldiers, night elf and undead corpses mingling in the grassy sand, all suffering he endured on the Dark Lady's orders. Still, he does not blame her for these transgressions, his traumas, no matter how much she wishes he would. Anya presses her elbow to his side, subtle but digging, and he lowers his hand.

Infuriating shame drowns Sylvanas but she bites her tongue and bides her time, wishing again for her hood and armor, any cover from Clea's lowered ears and Shandris' implications. The Sentinel-General will have her chance at retribution soon enough. 

She turns from Nhemai's bedside, her green cloak whipping behind her, bidding her Sentinel escorts follow through the door. Sylvanas' visage darkens, tailing in her wake. If her heart still beat it would pound now, tense and troubled, but her face betrays no fear. Under her breath she mutters to Nathanos and Anya, "Wait." 

Their eyes survey her anxiously but they obey, standing at attention in the hallway near the throne room, out of earshot of the night elves. She continues, her voice low, "I must speak with her alone, without interruption."

"But-"

"I will have no interference from you, Nathanos." She harbors no room for argument; her eyes burn red, unshakably grim, "Do not open the door under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

He frowns deeply, shoulders stooped. "I understand, Dark Lady."

She turns, "Anya?"

Anya stands statue-still, her gaze unwavering. "I will not disturb you, Dark Lady. I will not open the door."

Sylvanas' eyes narrow, suspicious of her immediate compliance, but she doesn't have time to question it properly. Instead she glares at the two of them and says, "Good. Do not interrupt us."

Her leather boots pad quietly on the tiles of Grommash Hold, supple and lighter than her sabatons, and as she turns to Feathermoon and her Sentinels she sets her jaw. She firmly says, "I wish to speak with you privately, Sentinel-General."

"I don't want to be alone with you," Shandris replies immediately, not breaking her stride to the portal hub.

Sylvanas' ears snap low against her ashy hair, shocked at her instant refusal and the simple, cutting delivery of it. The honest truth hurts her worse than any clever political maneuvering; an unexpected wrinkle in her plans that spikes her anger. The fury passes quickly, her mind whirring with anxiety and confusion— she _needs_ this, it is what she deserves; it _must_ be Shandris— and her lips part, all her witty retorts long since vanished.

She doesn't know what else to do, so she quietly asks, "Please?"

At this Shandris stops in her tracks, her head bowed low. She sucks her lips into her mouth, eyes closed, face scrunched in misery. Torchlight reflects off of her armor when she finally stares back at Sylvanas, dumbfounded by her apparent sincerity. After a long pause, she snaps, "Fine." She opens the doors to the throne room without waiting for Sylvanas, and tells her guards to wait outside. The Sentinels peek up fearfully at Nathanos and Anya, who loiter miserably across from them.

The red clay throne room is empty and stiflingly warm, lit by sconces and torches lining the walls between the hodgepodge decorations of orcish and elven weapons. Sylvanas can see her own red eyes reflecting in the polished stone tiles, smooth and easy to clean. The Warchief's throne is empty but for Lireesa Windrunner's crossed swords hovering above it, simple steel against their wooden mount.

As soon as the doors thud closed behind them, Shandris asks, "Where's Jaina?"

_That's none of your business_ , Sylvanas thinks before taking a breath. She has no right to be overprotective: Shandris and Jaina were friends long before the peace treaty was signed. Being unreasonable now will only drive Shandris away and thwart her own plans. She says, "She's asleep, and under the weather. I thought it unwise to disturb her."

"She had a cough at the reception." Shandris says lowly, appraising the gleaming shield of Thalorien Dawnseeker. "I can send her a healer from Lor'danel, a Life healer. I imagine the Forsaken don't often catch colds."

Sylvanas bristles at the insinuation that her people, that _she,_ can't properly care for Jaina. She forces out, "I will ask her when she wakes if that is something she desires."

Shandris continues her tour of the weapons in silence, dwelling on those from old Quel'Thalas. Her voice turns formal, businesslike, as if to fill the space with something tangible, "The trade routes to the north remain blocked. Supply wagons aren't passing beyond Mulgore and there are fewer ships docking in Lor'danel with every passing day. Your Horde emissaries and my peer inform me that this is not your doing."

Sylvanas raises her chin, proud to hear that Lor'themar still defends her, "They are correct."

Shandris' face betrays no emotion, but returns to a well-balanced Zandalari spear on the wall. "Then you will take no offense that I have asked the Unseen Path to look into this issue, and to heighten their patrols along the coast as well. I spoke with Velonara earlier today and she mentioned that she was surprised you'd not sent a letter to Trueshot Lodge asking her for the same. They'd already heard about the naga attack."

_Again,_ Sylvanas thinks, disgusted with herself, _Feathermoon has a better rapport with my Dark Rangers than I do._

"The Uncrowned have occupied my time with news of the True Horde and Loyalists," Sylvanas says, suppressing the double-toned banshee, ever frustrated, from creeping into her voice.

"She also assumed the Uncrowned and their spy network were involved," Shandris continues. "Though we have little connection with the rogues. Regardless, Velonara has expressed an interest in resolving these trade issues, and has taken the lead. She also sends her congratulations to you and Jaina."

Velonara was always a smug woman, perhaps because of her unusual height and strength, but was indispensable with a longbow and loyal to a fault. But she was most reliably a troublemaker; Sylvanas could practically see her cocky grin from thousands of miles away.

Shandris turns slowly, her blue eyes gazing down haughtily, as imperious as any glance of Tyrande's. "I plan to inform the Reparations Council of the missing deliveries to northern Kalimdor. Replenishing the food stock of the remaining kaldorei will become the Alliance's priority. I suggest you make it the Horde's as well."

Sylvanas untenses her shoulders and dryly replies, "Thank you for the advice, General Feathermoon, though that was already my plan of attack."

Shandris' face remains impassive and unimpressed, but she chews the inside of her lip, already agitated. Sylvanas' time is limited and she has wasted enough of it in these long stretches of silence.

She steels herself and asks, "How's my sister?"

"I don't want to talk about Alleria."

"It's a simple question, General. No need to take offense."

Shandris huffs an incredulous laugh. "Did you really want to speak with me alone because you're too afraid to ask after Alleria yourself?"

Hollow heat rises in her body, unfamiliar and unnatural with no pulse to speak of, but now she knows: Shandris can be prodded, goaded. Her hand can be forced, and easily.

"And here I thought you cared about repairing broken families," Sylvanas ponders, her voice smooth and carefree. She slips so easily into it, the taunting Banshee Queen they have all come to expect. The role fits her like well-worn armor, protective and comfortable, infuriating to her enemies, exactly what she needs. "For shame, General."

"After everything you've done, you still want to play mind games with me?" Shandris glares at her, as dark as her mother's eclipse.

Sylvanas tilts her head, her hair gliding across the back of her borrowed jacket. She removes it slowly, folding the black fabric over her arm and placing it on the seat of the throne as she speaks. "Isn't it strange, the sudden insurgence of naga poison? The symptoms of Priesthood are notable, familiar to me recently, though it took some time to realize why."

She begins a wide, pacing circle, red eyes fixed on a grimacing face. Shandris shreds apart beneath the tension of it, the stable locus at the center of so many problems: Teldrassil, the Night Warrior, her missing father, her starving people, the fragile peace, worry for Jaina, fear of losing Alleria, the diplomatic need to interact with the woman who ruined every aspect of her life. Sylvanas sees it all, and she circles, set on her hunt.

"It was Azshara's poison first, forbidden nearly on the eve of its creation, if my memory serves."

Shandris chews the inside of her cheek, her nervous impulses growing rapidly out of her control. Her breathing grows ragged as she asks, "What of it?"

"Its effects are awful enough in the undead, but far worse in the living. Your Sentinel is lucky she merely ingested it." Sylvanas' circle grows tighter, closer, and she watches her prey keenly, all of her little ticks and agitations on display. She should never have agreed to be alone with her, not when she has an agenda. Not when she needs to read her face, her reactions, and spur her to action.

"How is Maiev Shadowsong? Bloodhoof informed me she was badly poisoned when she traveled alone with your mother."

At this Shandris wheels on her, teeth bared, "What are you implying, Warchief?"

_Yes, you've thought it too then,_ Sylvanas thinks, watching her fear roil beneath the thin layer of anger, her abandonment and dread simmering below the surface. _Tyrande would never use Priestshood, but the thing in Mulgore is not the High Priestess. You don't know where your mother's gone, or what replaced her._

The words pour out of Sylvanas in a violent staccato and she pauses in the center of her throne room, her abattoir, eyes locked on Shandris' face. It's time to take what she's owed.

"I warned them to evacuate. Did you know that, General? I told Tyrande and Malfurion both that I do not make idle threats."

"Enough," Shandris hisses, a rope taut and frayed.

Sylvanas knows the musculature of wild beasts like the back of her own hand, the layers of tissue and binding ligaments beneath the fur and skin. Her mother and the twins and Alleria taught her so much of what it meant to be a Ranger, and she passed this knowledge down to Vereesa and Lirath. She knows how to make a clean shot, an ethical shot, with a perfectly honed broadhead, avoiding dense, protective bone around the lungs and heart. She knows the discipline and patience required to wait, finally releasing to strike the vitals and be done with the hunt, quick and painless.

The psychological anatomy of a damaged woman is no different. She nocks her arrow, words forming on her lips, and holds. Her fingers will not slip here, not like with Calia Menethil, writhing and bleeding out slowly, gasping in novel pain, such agony foreign to the sheltered princess. But then, this arrow is not for Shandris at all.

"Do not mistake my warnings for pity. It's standard protocol for urban occupation campaigns and you _know_ it, General. You _know_ scorched earth is always a risk in a siege. Did you not question why your mother so adamantly refused to order her civilians away? Did you even attempt to overrule her when you knew you should?"

Shandris quivers, her eyes as empty as Delaryn Summermoon's on the beaches of Darkshore, a lovely, brave corpse riddled with arrows, nothing left of her conviction but falling ash. How Sylvanas boiled with spite and wrath, the only things she could feel at all. How much easier to burn the tree, a reaction she could catalyze like the trembling woman before her now.

"You took my home from me," Shandris breathes. "You took my family."

"No." She gives Shandris the needling cruelty they all expect and drawls, slow and deep, "Your mother left of her own volition. She is consumed with something you cannot possibly understand. She is not what she once was."

"You don't know anything about us," she says, but her words drift away like a puff of smoke, feeble and unconvincing.

They could have been friends once, long ago in Silvermoon when Tyrande presented her daughter to the high elves, a woman grown, powerful and bright. So long ago that even Alleria was young, still Lireesa's presumptive heir, lost in the forest more often than not, twigs in her hair and dirt beneath her nails. Sylvanas remembers Shandris, tall and regal, and Tyrande, impressive, impeccably beautiful. Even so young Sylvanas thought, _Who could gaze upon Tyrande without loving her, at least a little?_ Whether admiration or fervor the emotions were sincere, and all veneration she deserved. She still captivates Azeroth with her innate, instinctive attraction, with power unmatched by all but the Life-Binder herself, ancient and tender and deadly. Even mother said so, centuries ago.

"I know you won't convince her to stay," Sylvanas says, and the fury constricts around Shandris, loss and betrayal a noose around her neck. But still she digs deeper; it isn't enough. "She will leave you, again and again."

Her mother's swords glint above the throne, sharp and unadorned, Justice and Mercy. Sylvanas knows much of a daughter's burdens and a daughter's failures, and the cracks they leave behind in her foundation, crumbling and eroded.

"Shut up," Shandris grits her teeth.

The woman is devoid of ignobility and spite, incapable of doing ugly, cruel things. Shandris holds her unkind thoughts like cancer in her bones, festering and sordid, and calls them evil solely for existing in her mind. She will never voice them, never act on her savage whims. She is not at all like Sylvanas, who ruins beautiful things.

Sylvanas hangs her head, tearing her eyes away. No more delays: she will do what she does best, and ruin. She lets slip her arrow and speaks her killing shot.

"She's a secret-keeper, a runner, a _coward_. She never told you, did she, Shandris? We were at war. They knew the risk they were taking and in their ancient _arrogance_ they attempted to call my bluff."

"Shut _up_."

"You wouldn't have taken that gamble; you would have protected your people; you wouldn't _abandon_ them." Her cadence quickens, growing wilder. "But she wouldn't stay, not even for you. You're unimportant. A disappointment."

" _Shut up_!" she shouts.

Sylvanas' voice rises, a spitting, furious thing, "She'll leave you like always, and so will Alleria. They're both monst-" 

Shandris' fist severs the sentence halfway out of her mouth.

Her knuckles collide with Sylvanas' cheek like a cannonball, connecting so hard she sees wispy outlines of stars like the fireworks at her wedding. The stretch of her spine cracks like a macabre accordion, warped and twisted as she falls. She staggers back, knees buckling, but manages to stay upright long enough for another swing to smash across her nose in a burst of blood before she falls backwards completely, flat against the cold ground.

The physical pain racks her body, so unused to being touched by another, even in combat. She fights from a distance, as an archer, as a commander, or she decorporealizes into an untouchable shadow. Even Jaina, whose warm skin grows more familiar by the day whether she wants it or not, never hurts her.

Knuckles smash like hammers against her cheeks and through the haze of pain she feels Shandris climb onto her, sitting on her waist, her fists crashing against her face again and again. _A Ranger pinned is a Ranger dead,_ Alleria once told her, but she resists the urge to buck her hips and roll away, to escape the way her sister taught her eons ago.

She chokes on her blood and forces her spirit to remain in her body, to let herself suffer with full consciousness, and Sylvanas plants her shaking palms flat on the tile and takes what she is owed. Her neck stretches with every impact, head lolling uselessly, but she does not raise her hands to protect herself.

Shandris grunts as she strikes, teeth bared, blood staining her knuckles, her muscles flexed beneath her armor. As Sylvanas' left eye seals shut, pooled with blood, she thinks that Shandris really is an impressive warrior. As much as she loathes being touched, perhaps there is some mercy in the world and Shandris will kill her, accidentally or intentionally, it matters not to her. Malfurion and Tyrande will never get their turns.

_How dreadful for them_ , she thinks, semi-conscious, her head smacking against the tiles as blood drips down the back of her throat, _to not get their revenge. I know that feeling well._

She chokes on it, coughing and gagging, spattering her white shirt and Shandris' face with her mess— she didn't mean to; she can barely see, the curtains around her eyes are all black and red; it hurts more than she thought it would, and she's so grateful she removed Marrah's jacket before she started, and left her sapphire necklace tucked safely in her bedside table— and Shandris blinks, heaving. Her left hand presses down hard on Sylvanas' chest, pinning her, and her right fist is raised mid-air, crimson dripping down her forearm.

"You want this," she hisses, incredulous and feral. Her eyes dance wildly to Sylvanas' hands, fingers splayed, palms rooted firmly in place. She gasps, "You _want_ this."

And Sylvanas cannot answer yet, her mouth is filled with blood and her jaw aches where Shandris now clutches it, but her fingers quiver and she steadies them against the ground. _Why did you stop_? she wants to ask, but the river of blood from her nose pours down her throat and she gurgles pathetically, speckling Shandris' hand with her gore.

"I won't let you have it," Shandris whispers, trembling atop her, furious tears welling in her eyes. She slowly plants her hands on either side of Sylvanas' head and leans lower, her voice shaking, "It's too easy. You do not deserve the easy way out, Sylvanas Windrunner."

She tears herself off of Sylvanas, sitting hunched an arm's length away, her long legs extended before her. She gazes down, horrified at the torn knuckles resting in her lap, already swelling from the damage they've done to Sylvanas' face, now a ruin like Teldrassil.

" _Gods_ ," she pants, blinking back tears. "Damn it."

_How sorry she must feel. How guilty to cave so easily when goaded._

Sylvanas lays on her back, watching her with one eye open. She takes stock of her injuries, fuzzy and dazed: her left ear is bleeding, along with most of her face, pulpy, pulsing, and bruised. She is choking on her own blood— she can taste it, unfulfilling and unpleasant, void of the replenishing spirit from the beasts she drinks— and tries to clear her throat with little success.

Shandris inhales deeply to steady her breath. She says, "If you hurt Jaina, I'll kill you."

From her stupor on the floor, Sylvanas closes her eyes, surprised. Deep red ichor pours from her nose, pooling in her hair. Somehow she did not expect the subject to shift, for anything to be left of Shandris' now-restrained revenge, but of course Jaina Proudmoore is an exception. 

Sylvanas croaks back, words slurred, "If you hurt Alleria, I'll kill you."

Even as the threat leaves her split lips, the sentiment surprises her as much as her admission of it. But she remembers a time long ago when she baked Alleria sugar cookies late at night, and they gossiped and giggled until it was time to put the little ones to bed, still hiding under their father's desk in the study, Alleria's stolen pillows piled around them. The abrupt memory, crystallized as something important in her mind, hurts her worse than any injury could, overpowering the throbbing fractures in her cheekbone and the shredded skin of her eyebrow with a wound much deeper.

Bright blue eyes still shiny with tears roam her massacred face, flinching at the product of her own work. "I would never hurt Alleria," Shandris murmurs, and the honesty is plain enough in her expression that Sylvanas believes her.

She swallows the blood in her mouth, and opens her good eye. Sylvanas turns to face her, neck muscles screaming in pain, for once too weak to wear her mask, and says, "I won't hurt Jaina."

Then, as if summoned, Jaina's arcane scent fills every corner of the throne room. Through the overwhelming iron in her nose, Sylvanas smells her fragrant, floral magic well before she sees her shimmering portal. Then she appears, striding toward them, her magic radiating off of her like the summer sun: livid, terrified, white hair greasy and tangled, her nightgown rippling above bare legs.

Jaina, eyes aglow, shouts in a voice raw and frenzied, "What did you _do_?"

The blood pours from Sylvanas' mouth, her hands still shaking against the tile floor, and, as she stares despondently at Jaina, she finds she cannot muster up a satisfactory answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas and Shandris in the exact same tone of voice:  
> 


	35. Jaina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the one and only Dana! Happy belated birthday!!!! Everyone wish Dana a happy birthday in the comments so Sylvanas will come to your house, kill you, and take you to the Maw, but in a very sexy way.

Jaina rushes forward on the brink of panic, her throat burning and tight with terror. Shandris stares blankly back at her, eyes full of unshed tears, her arms painted cherry-red up to her elbows, while Sylvanas lies shaking in a puddle of her own blood, her face completely ravaged. 

"What happened?" Jaina breathes.

The buzzing in her ears crescendos to a high-pitched whine as anxiety floods her system. She drops her magic, eyes dashing around the room, searching for any sign of danger. But they are alone and her wards are intact, unthreatened by anyone other than themselves. For a moment she thinks Sylvanas is going to explain, wincing as her bruised jaw works, but she merely swallows the blood pooling in her mouth and remains silent. Jaina's fury bubbles up and spills over, her face flushed with fever, and when they say nothing she hisses, " _Talk_." 

"I'm so sorry, Jaina," Shandris blurts, wringing her gory hands as tears pour down her cheeks. She presses her gauntlets to her chest, balled against her heart, choking back sobs and stuttering out, "It's my fault. I hurt her. I was so angry. She didn't hit me back—"

Her words are drowned by a keening sob, devastated beyond measure. She watches with dread as Shandris as she curls into herself, her lip trembling in grief, and Jaina quails: she has never seen her weep like this before. _This isn't the whole story_ , she thinks. She feels that much clearly in Sylvanas' silence and Shandris' strange, desperate horror. Jaina drops to her knees, her bare skin slick with blood, and tries to help Sylvanas upright. While she makes no complaint or argument about being repositioned, she remains utterly limp, a dead weight heavy against Jaina's thighs, too weak to move at all. Jaina balks as she stares down at her at her swollen face, the mottled burgundy and purple blooming across her skin, but she slides Sylvanas' head into her lap, left hand resting against her bloodied collarbone, away from her injuries.

_She's not wearing her armor,_ Jaina dimly notices.

"What happened?" she asks again. Her eyes turn down to Sylvanas, loose white hair a curtain around them both. She aches to unleash her wrath on Sylvanas, whose one red eye struggles to follow her motions, but she will save that screaming match for behind closed doors. Shandris knows too much already and didn't need to see them fighting, or try to read the jumbled web of emotions twisting between them. They must present a unified front, even in whatever this disaster is.

Shandris cries out again, hiccupping, "I violated the treaty. I hit her. She didn't do anything—"

Jaina's head snaps up, "Do _not_ lie to me, Shandris Feathermoon."

Shandris sucks her lips into her teeth and closes her teary eyes, her shoulders shaking, but says nothing more. Jaina didn't know what to expect when she walked in: Anya and Nathanos were barely coherent when they burst into the Suite, startling her awake from a fever dream, him talking over her in a frenzy about some danger in the throne room. She bolted upright on the sofa, covered by a blanket that had not been there the night before, no sign of Sylvanas. Enraged and undermined, she ripped open a portal at once.

But she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Shandris would never endanger her people in a blind fury, not even for the chance to kill the woman who burned Teldrassil. Not without extreme provocation. The memory of a wall of water flashes in Jaina's mind, the Focusing Iris pulsing vengeance in her veins, visions of bloated, drowned corpses littering the streets of Orgrimmar. Garrosh Hellscream would know pain as she had at Theramore: she would wound him, city for city, life for life, until nothing was left of them both.

But Shandris is not like her, not like Sylvanas; her heart isn't full of hate.

"I taunted her," Sylvanas whispers, her voice so weak it's barely audible . Flecks of blood dot her lips, and each word drags out painfully, sluggish and labored, "Until she struck me." 

Shandris sobs again and bright rage erupts in Jaina's stomach, hotter even than her fever. She glares down imperiously at one glowing red eye, dull with pain, dilated as if concussed. For once Sylvanas doesn't shrink beneath her scrutiny, perhaps because she hasn't regained her mental faculties, or because she physically can't. She recalls the coursing electricity of the mana bomb alighting every nerve with searing agony, and how it left her body broken, paralyzed in the tiny portal Rhonin made to protect her. The last he would ever make.

Her abrupt fury fades as quickly as it came. She swallows hard against the burning in her throat and Sylvanas remains motionless, the keen lines of her face blunt with pain. Her flesh is clammy, even colder than usual; her eyes are frighteningly dull. But her hands remain pressed to the floor, as if she has room in her body for only one order, one mission to accomplish with single-minded purpose. Sylvanas, barely cognizant in Jaina's lap, obviously did not bother protecting herself from the onslaught of Shandris Feathermoon.

An emotion swims in Jaina's reeling mind— reluctant admiration or horrified scorn, she does not know; she does not _want_ to know— but still, she longs to ask her why. Why invite this suffering when it would only compound their problems? Why endanger the Unification Treatise for no personal gain? Why blatantly disobey her request to be present? But there is a time and a place for these questions, and this is neither. She tears her eyes away from the woman in her lap.

"Come here, Shandris. Look at me," Jaina croaks. She extends her other hand and Shandris crawls toward her at once, desperate for forgiveness and comfort. Jaina takes her face into her palm, addressing them firmly. "I need you both to be better than this. We cannot tell anyone what happened here. Do you understand? No one can know."

Shandris slumps against Jaina's other side, her wet face pressed into her shoulder, fingers clinging to her green nightgown. Years ago, after Theramore, Jaina clung to Shandris that way with Vereesa pressed between them, catatonic and empty. She remembers how Shandris tried to help Jaina explain to the boys what was happening, but they were so young. They couldn't understand the spasms that sporadically tore through Jaina until she choked, or why their mother looked through them like they were merely a window to some other place, a better place, that she would never visit again. Shandris stood in Vereesa's bedroom in Stormwind, her arms open to them both, and gave them a safe place to be damaged without pretense or expectation. They were her friends and only her friends: two women who'd experienced tremendous loss and unimaginable grief, and were given no time to process or recover before being thrust back into their responsibilities. The Archmage and Ranger-General were afforded no respite except what Shandris Feathermoon gave them: quiet, sincere reassurances and the strength of her embrace.

So when Shandris sobs, "I can't— I need to tell Alleria—" Jaina softly exhales, and the last flame of her anger vanishes. Sylvanas flinches at her sister's name, a miniscule twitch of her muscles that Jaina would have missed if not for their proximity, but says nothing.

Jaina turns her attention to Shandris again, uncertain of exactly what Alleria means to her, though they touch each other and dance and smile, and Jaina thinks she has never seen the two of them so happy. That's another conversation for a later time. But she knows with utmost certainty that she doesn't have the fortitude to refuse her, not now, unraveling in her embrace, so she holds the back of her head against her shoulder and concedes, "Then only Alleria can know. She can talk to me if she has questions. You will send her to me, Shandris. Not Sylvanas. You understand?" 

Shandris cries harder and nods, turning her head against Jaina's shoulder to peek at the immobile woman in her lap. She reaches a trembling hand out to Sylvanas' face, then pulls it back into her chest, mortified.

Jaina says, "No one else can know. I will clean this up, but you have to leave."

"Is she—" Shandris stares down at Sylvanas' pulpy face, unable to finish her sentence. "Did I—"

"She will recover. You were provoked into violating the Unification Treatise," Jaina rasps, her exhaustion growing heavier with every breath, "and I am going to set right what went wrong here today. But I need you to leave, and to keep your silence."

Jaina opens a portal on the beaches of Lor'danel, vaguely familiar with the location from a diplomatic visit decades ago. The placement is safer and more private than the large shoreline inn, or whatever remains of it after the war on Darkshore, and will give Shandris more time to compose herself before she returns to her camp and to Alleria. The spell drains Jaina more than usual, undoubtedly magnified by her own fatigue and emotional turmoil, but she sets her jaw and whispers, "You need to go, Shandris."

Shandris detaches herself slowly and shambles toward the portal, her ears and head low, and turns again to whisper, "I'm so sorry, Jaina."

Jaina remains silent, but offers a small nod from her place on the tile floor, hot in the stuffy room despite her bare legs and the cool skin of Sylvanas' chest beneath her palm. She watches as Shandris vanishes through the glowing blue portal, still shamefaced and sniffling, and she knows she should blame her friend in some measure for what happened here: for beating Sylvanas so brutally and for violating a peace treaty already built on unsteady ground.

But Jaina feels only pity for Shandris in her heart, and her sense of equity is swallowed up like a shipwreck beneath the dark waves of the ocean. The hot ember of fury in her stomach returns to rest solely on Sylvanas' shoulders. Sylvanas, who lied to her and hurt them both in the process, who brought pain and suffering down on anyone foolish enough to approach her, who scorns what remains of her friends, who betrays the woman bound to her by ink and honor. The sea cares not for justice, and neither does her daughter.

"Nathanos! Anya!" Jaina shouts, then coughs into her elbow, away from Sylvanas.

"No," Sylvanas sputters. "Don't show them."

Jaina curls her lip and says. "I've heard enough from you."

"Please," Sylvanas begs, blood pouring from the corner of her lips.

"I said _enough_ ," Jaina growls, and the harsh timbre of her own voice surprises her. She pants, raw with anger and stress, but leaves her palm in place against her prominent collarbone. Sylvanas stares up at her with something like guilt on her face, as vacant and detached as Vereesa looked after Theramore. Jaina peels her eyes away again, quelling the pang of sympathy that threatens her conviction. She suddenly sees more similarities that tether them: the innumerable traumas, the misguided revenge, the loneliness of their authority. She remembers the portraits that lined Windrunner Spire, and how happy Sylvanas once looked a lifetime ago.

A scorching, leaden knot forms in her stomach as she realizes how dreadfully lonely Sylvanas must be to spurn the support of her closest companions, her Rangers, when she is at her weakest. Jaina would not have survived this long without her friends and family: she would wither and die in that isolation, as she nearly had in the darkness of Thros, smothered by her nightmarish memories, alone in the shadows.

The door to the throne room creaks open, and Nathanos' wide red eyes peer tentatively inside. "Dark Lady!" he exclaims, rushing forward. Anya bursts through behind him, focused intently on Sylvanas' face for a long beat before taking stock of the blood pattern beneath her, her eyes sharpened for any sign of the now-missing Shandris. She catches the disappearing trail of footprints at once, then stares back at Jaina, her expression betraying no emotion.

Nathanos moves to kneel beside them but Jaina says, "Stay out of the blood."

"Yes," he breathes absentmindedly, concerned etched on his face. He crouches on Sylvanas' other side and rests his hands on her shoulder and wrist. "Dark Lady, what happened?"

Jaina answers before Sylvanas can muster up the strength to lie. "Nathanos, I need you to send Shandris' Sentinels back to Lor'danel. Tell them that I personally escorted the Sentinel-General home via portal. Our meeting finished early and I apologize profusely for not portaling them too." 

His mouth opens, uncomprehending, "What?"

Jaina struggles to keep her voice calm and low, "Please, Nathanos. I do not have time to explain. For Sylvanas' sake, _please,_ go."

Sylvanas opens her good eye and groans, "Do as she says."

Pity tugs at Jaina's heart, at Nathanos' terror and distress for Sylvanas' well-being, emotions she never considered him capable of expressing. But lately she has been proven very wrong about the Ranger Lord: he wept at their wedding ceremony, and danced unabashedly at their reception. While he does not completely trust Jaina, his loyalty to Sylvanas is unparalleled, and his desire to see her protected is even greater. They are aligned on that much, at least.

Jaina says, "Nathanos, I have her. She'll be all right. I'm going to take her to our room and you can come check on her later. But right now we need the utmost expediency and discretion."

His lips press together, ruffling his beard, and he nods as he rises to his feet. "Yes, of course." He gently squeezes Sylvanas' shoulder once before he slips out the door to send off the Sentinels.

"Anya," Jaina calls out softly, growing weaker by the moment. She has been drowning since Stratholme, less and less emotionally resilient for all her new power.

The Ranger-Captain is by her side in a flash, silent and attentive. Her face remains undisturbed at the sight before her, far steadier than Nathanos, and ready for her orders. "I'm here, Lady Jaina."

"Please, help Sylvanas up."

Anya takes a knee beside Sylvanas, wrapping her arms around her chest and hoisting her upright as gently as possible. Jaina follows her up, looping one of Sylvanas' limp arms around her shoulders, concerned with the weight of her and the way her head lolls uselessly against her chest. For Sylvanas to allow such an overt, visible weakness, she must have no other option. Her boots drag crooked lines into the bloody puddle as she tries ineffectively to stand on her own.

"I have her," says Jaina, threading her arm around Sylvanas' waist. "I'm sorry to ask this of you, Anya, but I need you to clean this up. There can be no sign of what happened here."

"Of course," she instantly replies.

"Thank you," Jaina breathes, relieved at her compliance. She waves open another portal, staggering slightly at the combined toll of its energy drain on her body and the strength required to support Sylvanas' dead weight, but she manages to drag them both through. The tiles blend from orange to white beneath their bloody footprints, and they stand in the dark bathroom of the Warchief's Suite before the sliding door of the large shower.

She heaves Sylvanas against the marble walls, sitting her upright in a corner on the shower bench. Even now, when the two of them are alone, her body remains limp as if she is barely awake. Jaina doesn't have time to spare; she kneels before her, pulling off her boots and socks, both covered in the grime from her face, and tosses them out of the shower. She reaches to turn on the shower head, gasping as the frigid water strikes her back, a shield between the cold and Sylvanas.

Her hoarse voice tears out, fraying more with every syllable, as the chill drips down her back and legs, "It has been two days since the wedding. We haven't even made it a _week_."

Jaina doesn't know why she bothers speaking, but she cannot keep her silence. Goosebumps prickle her skin and the yawning sense of betrayal and burden creates a new hole in her chest, the hollowness her ever-present friend. She is always cleaning up messes and making her own, and living with their outcomes for better or worse. Nothing is easy for her, and she is a fool for thinking they might be aligned in this peace, in this marriage, in whatever this tense relationship was. She has something to say, disappointment to voice, the weight of it heavy on her shoulders, whether or not Sylvanas is even capable of remembering the conversation. Not that she would listen if she was.

The water warms and so does Jaina, her stern objectivity warping into resentment that strikes much closer to home. "I told you to wake me. I told you not to do this." Her voice breaks into a mewling sound, " _Why_ did you do this?"

Sylvanas gazes up at her, slouched in the corner, her palms twitching in her lap. She inhales once, slowly, as if to answer, but her eyes close instead, and she releases her quivering exhale without saying a word.

"Fine," says Jaina, full of impotent fury and frustration. "You don't have to speak to me, but I will speak to you."

Jaina summons her magic and pulls a washcloth and towel from the wooden cabinet across the bathroom toward her. The mana expenditure is worth conserving her dwindling physical energy, the arcane exertion of summoning three back-to-back portals notwithstanding. She steps to the side, washcloth in hand, allowing the spray of warm water to drench Sylvanas from head to toe, staining her white shirt pink and brown.

"Do you think this is some kind of restitution? Blood for blood? I am _ashamed_ at you, unraveling in a heartbeat what we have spent countless hours and personal sacrifices correcting. You have weighed your own vendettas and misguided obsession with clemency as more important than the literal peace of Azeroth. This isn't justice. This is a _travesty_." 

She closes the gap between them, stepping between her legs. She tilts up Sylvanas' face, watching as her ears snap back against her damp hair, and her unswollen eye opens wide in shock.

"We have a chance at a future now, finally, after a lifetime of war. I will not let you throw that away. I have worked too hard; I have done too many terrible things," her voice hitches. She breathes deeply and calms herself, wringing out the washcloth before bringing it to the cut above Sylvanas' eyebrow. "I have my own penance. I have my own work to do."

A lump forms in her burning throat, and Jaina breathes, "She could have killed you." The thought presses at Jaina's chest like a vicegrip, a boulder crushing her lungs, and over the patter of the showerhead, the buzzing in her ears returns. Sylvanas is too weak to clean herself up and, for all of her mythical prowess, she had nearly been killed in her own throne room.

Sylvanas leans into the heel of her hand, too frail to hold herself upright, and Jaina repositions her head against her shoulder, ignoring the how the fresh blood from her eyebrow seeps into her nightgown, and how Sylvanas' hands ball into fists.

With a soft grunt of pain into her chest, Sylvanas finally speaks, "That would have been kinder."

It occurs to Jaina in a sickening tidal wave that she has no concept of what to do if Sylvanas dies. Jaina's not certain she even has enough remaining Val'kyr to restore herself, or have one of her Rangers restore her, or what it would mean if they failed. The loss of one of the First Peers, the Warchief of the Horde, the Dark Lady of the Forsaken, would spin the world into turmoil again, to say nothing of Jaina's sudden, dizzying spike of anxiety at the thought.

It pierces her heart to think of being left alone with all this mess. Jaina loathes that she is a selfish, bitter woman, fueled by spite and regret and the promise of atonement, but she cannot deny her true nature and the crippling fear of failure that shreds her mind to pieces in weak moments like this one. She cannot bear the thought of Sylvanas dying, of leaving her to fail, alone again, as always, a disappointment to the whole world. Her breath grows shallow and she prays that Sylvanas cannot distinguish between the water dripping down her face, and the angry tears that well up in her eyes.

"No. Look at me, Sylvanas," Jaina says, tilting up her bloody chin to face her. She gently holds her cheeks in her palms and though her voice wavers, she does not break her gaze. "If we are going to do this I need to be able to trust you, and right now I don't feel like I can. Not when you keep secrets and are _so_ intent on hurting yourself." Her words crack like shattered glass, sharp and irreparable and transparent, "Do not make me a widow. Do not make me do this alone."

Sylvanas' lips part as she stares up at her, anguish and fragility on her face, and she places her trembling hands on Jaina's hips, feebly pushing her away. Jaina leans down until they are face-to-face, no longer hiding her own vulnerability, sick to death of this awful game and the way the water runs murky with Sylvanas' blood. Jaina quakes before her, her fingertips fever-hot along her jaw, and says, "No. Promise me. Promise me that I don't have to do this alone."

The water and words catch in Sylvanas' mouth, and her hands drop uselessly into her lap. She stares back at Jaina and slouches, resting the full weight of her head in her hands, heavy and relieved, as if she cannot hold herself up any longer, and she murmurs, "I promise."

Jaina heaves an exhale, the solace of her commitment soaking into her, and pulls Sylvanas back against her chest in the closest thing to an embrace they've ever shared. "I promise too. I promise you," she breathes. Their words blanket them in something stronger than their wedding vows, born of something more sincere than ceremony, and Jaina thinks perhaps there is nothing more profound to bind them than tragedy.

She holds her in quiet uncertainty, wondering if Sylvanas can hear the crackle of her lungs as she breathes, or if she's bothered by the erratic pounding of her heart. Jaina shifts her anchor pendant, keeping the silver from digging into Sylvanas' temple, noting how pleasantly cool her skin feels against her burning body, an unexpected balm on her feverish flush. She rests her cheek on the crown of her head, recognizing with deep sadness how fervently she wants to be gentle with her, though she fears what that means, and what Sylvanas will think it means, and illness gnaws at her body, spoiling her moment of peace, and she realizes that she is sticky with Sylvanas' blood. She is raw with vulnerability and the weight of a broken woman leaning into the wet silk of her nightgown, but she knows she still has a job to do. Sylvanas held her up at the Spire when her knees buckled in pain; the least she could do is repay the favor.

Jaina sniffs, blinking back the redness in her eyes, and says, "You have blood in your hair. I'm going to wash it."

Sylvanas' ears twitch once, but she slurs, "All right."

Jaina reaches for a bottle of shampoo on the shelf behind her and Sylvanas presses against her as she leans, following the motion of her body with her eyes closed, her sensitivity to touch notwithstanding. _These circumstances are quite different_ , Jaina reasons, pooling the shampoo in her hands. _More excusable._ And despite her aversion, Sylvanas has no one else to help her; she would certainly refuse her Rangers: she had practically begged for Jaina to hide her from their sights. No, she would have to make do with Jaina's assistance, or receive none at all.

She holds her with one arm, steadily working the shampoo into Sylvanas' ash-blonde hair with the other, the repetitive motion and light scratch of her nails on her scalp calming to both of them. She avoids her long ears, knowing well how sensitive and intimate that sort of contact is to an elf, only touching them to wipe away errant blood. When she does graze her ears, Sylvanas releases a shuddering breath, burying her face into Jaina's skin as well as she can with such acute neck injuries. Jaina has been struck hard by her enemies before, by weapons and spells and shrapnel, and she recognizes the signs of whiplash at once, the impact of Shandris' punches stretching the muscles of Sylvanas' neck and back as her head slammed against the floor of the throne room. 

_It must hurt her terribly_ , Jaina thinks, leaning her back against the wall to wash the other side of her hair.

The water runs down them both, soaking Sylvanas' white shirt until Jaina can clearly see Frostmourne's thick blue scar beneath the buttons of her blouse. She could have undressed them both, but Sylvanas has shown obvious discomfort with revealing any portion of her body. And for all her anger and the wealth of other confusing emotions roiling in her stomach, Jaina has no desire to embarrass her. But she does wonders if this is why Sylvanas' closet is void of anything but armor: she constantly ruins her clothes.

Sylvanas' red eye opens, staring back at her for only a moment before it suddenly darts around the shower, looking anywhere but directly at Jaina.

Jaina glances down at herself, surprised by her sudden shift in tone, and an abrupt laugh bubbles up at the realization that Sylvanas is trying very hard not to stare at her clinging silk nightgown and the curve of her breasts, and she wants to giggle at the absurdity of _this_ being the issue that finally rouses her to full consciousness.

Jaina smiles, blushing faintly at how revealed she actually is beneath the soaked fabric. She wants to laugh at this, at all of it, because it's easier than crying and, never, in her whole lifetime of study and planning, could she have ever anticipated finding herself in this predicament. But she doesn't think Sylvanas would tolerate laughter right now— particularly not from her, not at her expense, and she might close herself off entirely to any measure of future receptiveness— so her amusement warps into a deep, chesty cough that she hides in the crook of her elbow.

She pulls Sylvanas forward again, trying not to jostle her, and positions her beneath the water, rinsing out her hair and washing the last specks of blood from her face. When she's satisfied with her job, Jaina leans back to turn off the water and she stands pressed against Sylvanas, dripping into the drain.

Jaina chews the inside of her lip, staring at the towel on the floor. She shouldn't leave either of them with wet hair and drenched clothes. Another thought crosses her mind, a trick from Dalaran for mages in a rush, and for sailors on wintery seas. She warns, "Brace yourself. This isn't going to feel great."

She flicks her wrist like the crack of a whip, and the moisture trapped in their skin, hair, and clothing sloughs off all at once to the shower floor, like a snake shedding its skin in one hideous rip. Sylvanas shivers and groans, "That's wretched."

Jaina nods, but adds, "It's better than dying of hypothermia after falling overboard."

She feels Sylvanas smirk against the skin of her sternum, realizing with a wave of unexpected warmth that it's the first time she's seen her smile today. She says, "Debatable." 

Jaina smiles back faintly, crouching to loop Sylvanas' arm over her shoulders and lift her to her feet. Her injured lips press together in a flat line marred by lacerations, as if hurting them will suppress the stretching pain of her muscles. But she stumbles forward with Jaina's guidance, recovered enough to lurch into the bedroom.

She sets Sylvanas on the bed, propping her up with pillows against the headboard. The pale purple skin of her arm reaches out in a flash, long fingers digging into the wood. Jaina startles, staring at her quizzically. She says, "Lie down and I'll get your pajamas. You need to rest."

"No."

Jaina frowns, her arms at her side. For once confusion strikes first, and a desire to understand displaces her anger. "Why not?"

"I don't want to," she scowls, her fangs peeking out. "Not in here."

Sylvanas' body shakes with the tension of trying to hold herself upright, her jaw set hard against the pain. She never rests in the bedroom, preferring to leave it for Jaina's use whether or not she asked. Jaina glances to the living room and quietly says, "You can sleep in the bed and I can sleep on the sofa. It's no issue."

"No," Sylvanas repeats, her voice growing hard, as if she expects a fight.

"That's fine," Jaina says simply. "But you need to change. Your clothes are filthy."

She roots through her overnight bag for a fresh nightgown, and turns to the closet where she changes into clean clothing, exchanging the muddied green shift for a pale blue one. She retrieves the charcoal pajamas before she reemerges, setting them in a tidy pile on the bed beside Sylvanas.

"Can you—" Jaina bites her tongue. _Can you do this by yourself?_ was a surefire way to upset her, an unintended slight, but one that would certainly rob her of her dignity. She asks instead, "Will it hurt you to change?

"I'll be fine," Sylvanas says flatly, her head hanging low against her chest, a snarl on her face.

Jaina hums and closes the bedroom door behind her, allowing herself an ugly, long-overdue coughing fit as soon as she's alone. She swallows the tickling in her throat with a grimace, stalking across the room and flinging open a wide window. The icy gust of winter air swells through her hair and she gazes out at the rooftops of Orgrimmar, the shingles brightly reflecting the midday sun. A burst of movement catches her eye and she thrusts out her hand, slowing a flock of pigeons as they take flight. She blinks one of them into her hand before unfreezing the rest, and casts a sleeping spell on the plump, docile bird. An animal this size wouldn't heal Sylvanas completely, but it might ameliorate some amount of her pain.

She closes the window and returns to her sofa— _a_ sofa, she tacitly corrects herself— waiting for the bedroom door to reopen. She floats a log to the fireplace and lights it with magic, a drop of water in the deep sea of her mana reserves, but the veil of exhaustion weighs her down and she slouches lower, desperate to sleep again. It takes Sylvanas so long to change that Jaina nearly interrupts, but after several dragging minutes she staggers out slowly in her pajamas, nails digging into the doorframe. She lurches into the living room, half-collapsing onto the other couch.

Sylvanas groans, facing the ceiling, "You don't need to babysit me."

_I beg to differ_ , Jaina thinks, biting her tongue again.

"You can have the healers or you can have me, but you don't get to be in here alone," Jaina says, sounding braver than she feels. "Or I can call for Nathanos and Anya."

Sylvanas scoffs weakly, but offers no reply.

"What will it be, Warchief?"

She shifts her weight, wincing, and mumbles, "You."

"Good," says Jaina. She holds out the pigeon across the low table, offering it to her without preamble.

"No, not pigeons," Sylvanas moans. "They're so stupid."

This time the words slip out before she can contain them. "A stupid bird for a stupid decision."

Sylvanas' arm reaches out helplessly, stopping to rest on the table before withdrawing it back to her chest. She pants from exertion, and a twinge of pity races up Jaina's spine at the sight. There is no strength left in her at all; she cannot even extend her arm. Jaina walks across the room instead, not giving Sylvanas the chance to protest, and rests the pigeon directly on her hands before turning back to the window, knowing she dislikes an audience when she eats.

"You know they're not actually stupid," Jaina quips, staring at the rest of the flock as they hunt and peck on the streets below. "They can be trained to complete little puzzles. Deliver messages. That sort of thing."

Her connection to the bird is severed at once, snuffed out like a candle and replaced with a cold emptiness, but she feels more grateful for its loss than unnerved by it. At least Sylvanas drank its blood and spirit without arguing.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind next time I'm faced with a particularly taxing little puzzle," Sylvanas drawls.

Jaina tsks, taking a seat on the sofa. The dead pigeon rests on the table between them like a macabre Hallow's End decoration, and Sylvanas resumes her staring match with the ceiling. The swelling of her eye is dramatically improved, along with several small cuts on her face that vanished altogether. But she still moves stiffly, her muscles strained and tendons torn.

They sit in awkward silence, sore in more than physical ways, and Jaina clears her throat twice before she speaks, needing something to break the tension, "There are soldiers in the Alliance who believe you're untouchable," she tries not to cringe at her poor choice of words, and clarifies, "impervious to bodily damage."

"A lovely tidbit of Forsaken propaganda, but patently untrue," Sylvanas says, her tone clear and strong again after eating. "I'm far from invulnerable."

Jaina furrows her brow, and her voice grows softer, "Then why did you let Shandris attack you like that? If you were anything but a banshee, she would have broken your neck." When Sylvanas doesn't respond, her lips curled into a snarl, that is all the answer Jaina needs. "You wanted her to kill you."

"As if some part of you _wouldn't_ in my position," Sylvanas snaps, and her words tumble out in a stinging attack. "Spare me the pity: this marriage is your own self-imposed punishment. What happened in the throne room is mine, my burden to bear along with _countless_ others. I never asked you to sit in here and psychoanalyze me, constantly prying on my business like some common, nosy busybody, and I don't appreciate your hypocritical condolences when you are even worse a martyr."

In the silence that follows, Jaina feels above all else a profound sadness, a pervasive hopelessness, tangled in a trap of her own making. She feels no urge to fight her, or bite back with some equally cutting remark. She pulls a pillow into her lap, puzzled and despairing, and her blue eyes gaze down at the pale rug beneath her feet. Her skin flushes hot, from the fever or Sylvanas' words she cannot discern.

_It is strange_ , Jaina gloomily thinks, _that she doesn't count this marriage among her burdens._

Across the room, Sylvanas' eyes close hard, guilt clear on her battered face. She says, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," says Jaina lowly. No part of what Sylvanas said was a lie and that, she thinks, stung the most. There is some cruel catharsis to it, knowing that Sylvanas sees exactly what she is and hates her the same way. There is alignment, a lack of resistance. Jaina can offer no counterpoint to her argument.

"It's not all right," Sylvanas mumbles. She rubs her thumb hard against her knuckles and says, "That was uncalled for. You haven't— I'm not angry with you. I'm just _angry_. I don't know how—" She exhales raggedly, "I don't know how to make it right."

Jaina recounts her own numerous injuries again, the dreadful prize for surviving decades of war, and the way her neck and back ached with whiplash from blunt force trauma, or how her head split with the booming thunder of canon fire, or how the pinched skin of her gunshot wound still stings when she stretches too far. The Light could only fix so much, and Jaina knows well that time is the only way to heal most damage done, physical and otherwise.

She rises, grabbing her pillow and blanket before she loses her nerve. She looms over Sylvanas and hoarsely says, "Sit up for a moment."

Sylvanas presses her hands to the cushions, laboriously obeying while turning her neck as little as possible, until she leans unsteadily against the back of the sofa. She watches Jaina from the corner of her eye with a dark, mistrustful expression, as if worried she's going to be disciplined somehow. But Jaina sits on the sofa in the space her head once occupied, leaning against the armrest and pulling the blanket up to her shoulders before setting the pillow in her lap.

"Lie down," she says.

Sylvanas' split lips curl unhappily as she struggles to protest, "I don't— this is completely unnecessary—"

"Lie down, Sylvanas," Jaina repeats, turning to face her. The dark circles beneath her eyes must be particularly intimidating because the second time Sylvanas complies. She lowers herself to her elbows, then her shoulders, her skin still warm from the shower. Jaina hadn't considered that she could acclimate to the temperature around her, retaining heat for a time, though she produced none of her own. But Sylvanas rests her head on the pillow in Jaina's lap, laying on her back with her eyes screwed shut and her arms crossed miserably over her ribcage.

Jaina surveys the lacerations and bruises on her face, marring the light freckles that sneak out between coal tear-tracks. The Windrunners share such proud features, elegant and memorable, and death has honed Sylvanas' to a razor's edge that suits her firm jawline and sharp cheekbones. Jaina lets the feverish thought run its course in her mind: Sylvanas is a lovely woman, even now, as a heinously injured banshee, pouting in her pajamas.

She sighs, too exhausted to grapple with herself, and orders, "Stay still."

She gently slides one hand beneath Sylvanas' neck, and places the other over her swollen eye and forehead. Sylvanas tenses at once, her knuckles clenching into tight fists, and Jaina burns with renewed sadness at the blatant confirmation of what she's known since the first time they collided on the roof of Proudmoore Keep: Sylvanas doesn't know how to be touched except by injury and malice; she cannot allow herself the luxury of comfort without betraying some weakness to another, and accepting an intolerable measure of mercy for herself. The thought breaks Jaina's heart a little, in an unexpected way, and she thinks again that she should have slain Arthas Menethil the moment he deceived her, before he scarred Quel'Thalas and purged Stratholme, and ruined a woman as good as Sylvanas Windrunner.

Jaina casts a simple spell to cool her hands, more soothing and effective than the harsh chill of ice for recovering sore muscles and bruised eyes. She faces the crackling fire in the hearth and softly murmurs, "I don't think people like us get to ask for forgiveness. We just have to exist, every single day, and work to fix what's broken. That's all we have. And maybe one day, if we do enough good and help enough people, we'll atone."

She can feel the flutter of Sylvanas' eyelashes against her palm, and knows she's watching her face, reading her the same way she was read. Jaina allows it, too tired to protest for now. She settles deeper against the armrest, warm beneath the weight of Sylvanas, and she drifts into a long overdue sleep, her hands still cradling Sylvanas' head long after the spell fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy almost-one-year IAH anniversary, and 50k hits too!! I hope you enjoyed reading this rollercoaster of a chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	36. Maiev, Alleria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! Enjoy this big ole 7.9k chapter!

Maiev has seen countless battlefields-turned-graveyards, each patterned with severed body parts and grey, screaming faces. She has seen how blood dries differently on sand versus grass, and how the wretched scent of death becomes more nuisance than nauseating when it permeates the air for a long enough time.

From her pallet, Maiev's hard, bitter gaze sweeps across the people on the lower plateaus and the shadowed, craggy landscape beyond. The shamans open the yellow tent flaps daily to give her some air. _And sunlight_ , one almost said, the words catching in her throat. But there is no sunlight here. Only candles and open flames whipping in the fierce winds of Mulgore, and the multicolored goblin lights that cast everything in gaudy shades.

There is something in Thunder Bluff that reeks of those haphazard graveyards. Like the sprawling mesas bathed in darkness should be full of corpses but simply aren't yet because the time isn't right. Like it is the promised land of a cruel god, consecrated for sacrifice by the most high. 

Tyrande cannot heal anymore, Maiev's convinced of it. She chews the inside of her mouth, gazing at the back of Tyrande's head. Ash'alah prowls below the city, hunting in the deep red canyons. Sometimes Tyrande joins her massive white saber cat, but mostly she does nothing and sits in the darkness she wrought, staring out over her broken people. They tried to worship her again, to praise Elune for her presence. But the songs and gratitude go nowhere now, sucked up into a vacuum never to be seen or appreciated or reciprocated again. Tyrande blinks at them until they leave.

Maiev flips her palm upright, ignoring the sting of pain as her flesh stretches. Black tendrils coil up her left forearm, fainter now than they were weeks ago, but the Priestshood from Tyrande's poisoned arrow still courses in her veins. She can walk a bit unassisted now, only a few pathetic steps, before her body collapses into an undignified heap. Only Bloodhoof will touch her when she falls. The other healers fear her and obey when she snaps and bites and drags herself back to her bed on her strength alone, panting and quaking. But Baine sighs and hoists her up to his massive shoulder, even though she slaps and complains. He murmurs, "Yes, yes. I know," and his eyes never leave Tyrande's blank face.

Tyrande frightens them. All of them. She festers in their home like rotten wood and day after day they wait for the roof to collapse on them. The Horde and Alliance do nothing, waiting for some cue from Baine, but he is petrified and too patient for his own good. Maiev has seen the dreamy-eyed injured, their pupils blown wide, jaws slack. Tyrande flickers in and out that way, returning to herself for only a moment before drifting away again, an empty silhouette beneath the black eclipse. Maiev would have acted by now. She scowls and closes her hand into a weak fist.

The tauren give her and Tyrande a wide berth, and the distance is exacerbated when she realizes that her own kaldorei do the same. A child injured himself two days ago, a night elf boy with a long face and a nasty broken leg jutting out from his thigh, but as he wept Tyrande stared at him, expressionless, unaffected. As if she couldn't see him at all. The High Priestess was unconcerned with the boy and his desperate, nervous, shiny-eyed parents, the two of them staring up at her with adoration in their hearts.

She couldn't reflect back their love, a mirror too filmy and oxidized with patina to function at all. Maiev watched her tilt her head, as if listening for something unfamiliar and soft, then turn away from the hurting family. By saying nothing, she rejected them and their child. The sun burned behind the darkness and Tyrande turned her black eyes to the the northwest, back to Teldrassil.

One of Baine's shamans scooped the child up instead, and Maiev knew at once that Tyrande was losing her battle. They sleep together at night, as much as Tyrande sleeps at all now, and sometimes Maiev wakes in the low candlelight to see Tyrande's glossy, empty eyes searching her face for something. She clings to her and Maiev lets her, pulling her in beneath the covers with a gruff, "Come here."

She hopes it's enough to keep her close, to tether what's left of Tyrande directly to her, so if one falls, they both fall. Maiev Shadowsong is a Warden and a woman of action, and she has never given up on a single thing in her life. She's not about to start now.

She knows this isn't the Tyrande from before, that there is something _profoundly_ wrong with her, but she can see her trying to claw her way back. Maiev has seen the chinks in the Night Warrior's armor. She has nothing better to do all day than find them, and to mark all the little ways that Tyrande Whisperwind still peeks out through that oppressive shell.

Their tent is on the Elder Rise, and Tyrande sits along the edge of it, watching the people go about their business. Everyone leaves them alone now, despite the overcrowded refugees needing all the space they can get; they are all too unnerved by Tyrande's menacing gaze, both vacant and penetrating, and the heat of her body, permanently feverish like she battles an infection. She is counting and plotting, and though Maiev cannot predict what or why, she knows she must stay close to save her because no one else will. No one else can prevent the catastrophe she feels aching in her atrophied muscles.

Maiev swallows, still glowering. Whatever is left of Elune's holy light has ordained her: save the remnants of Tyrande Whisperwind.

"Come over here," Maiev says. Her voice is hard because she is doing something dangerous. Maiev has learned a trick that mortifies Baine Bloodhoof and sends the shamans running, but it brings Tyrande close to her again. Where she can inspect her and attempt to read her intentions, and sometimes she will even speak for a little while in a dazed, hollow tone.

"Tyrande, come over here," she repeats more loudly this time. The orange glow of the fire reflects in Tyrande's hair and against the dirty fabric of her white gown, but she doesn't respond.

Maiev has learned that being demanding with Tyrande will at least garner some measure of her attention, mostly vexation. She is familiar enough with this not to flinch the way the bulls do. Two of her ever-present shamans recoil and scoot away, undoubtedly scampering off to tattle to Bloodhoof that she is annoying the ancient demigod of vengeance again.

Maiev leans off the side of her cot and picks up a clay pebble, rolling it between her fingers to check for sharp edges. It's blunt enough for her purposes. She rears back and pelts Tyrande with it, bouncing the rock off the back of her head.

Tyrande whips around at once, her face a mask of affronted outrage and Maiev grins at her success. She has learned to like it when Tyrande is mad, more irritated than anything, because at least it's an authentic response: Tyrande through-and-through. There is also a petty, ignoble piece of Maiev that enjoys annoying Tyrande the way Tyrande annoyed her for ten thousand years with her unaffected, haughty calm. At least when she's annoyed, she's coherent.

But even this is only the outline of her, shadowed by some fog, devoured by the Night Warrior.

"What are you doing over there?" Maiev asks. Tyrande's face twists up for a moment, confused and disturbed by her own inability to answer. When she settles into silence, Maiev continues, "You're scaring off the bulls. Come here."

Tyrande rises gracefully to her feet, silently sitting on the edge of their bed, and Maiev feels the thrill of a small victory. Her braids brush against her shoulder blades, caught in the high mesa wind. Maiev takes her too-warm fingers with her right hand, the uninjured one, and watches the way her body responds to the contact. Her eyebrows twitch, as if caught on the brink of knitting together before deciding better of it, and smoothing back to nothingness. She remains hypnotically distracted, her eyes fixed to the northwest.

"Do you hear that?" asks Tyrande softly.

"Hear what?"

Tyrande tilts her head, her eyelids lowering sadly. "She is laughing at me." 

Maiev props herself upright, groaning, "Who is?"

"Elune," mumbles Tyrande, her lips barely moving. "It must be."

The loose snowpack in Maiev's chest shatters, sliding apart, a victim of gravity, and the avalanche begins in earnest. The heresy accelerates; Tyrande's eyes reflect the golden ring of the eclipse, the sun's light devoured by something empty and cruel, and not at all like the moon and her cool, soothing retinue of starlight. Maiev was never Elune's most holy, but she knows how sacred power feels when it courses through a mortal and this pervasive wrongness in Tyrande is a knife between her ribs.

"Tyrande, look at me." Maiev clutches the back of her neck with her good hand, gripping her as hard as she's able. "That is _not_ Elune."

Tyrande slides her hand away at once, rising to her feet, and Maiev feels the continental divide between them like an endless chasm. She hazily intones, "Do not blaspheme our goddess, Maiev." And the flash of anger in her, the fragment of Tyrande, is gone again. The Night Warrior returns to her frigid cliffside, staring down at the people below, her back turned to Maiev.

Her fists curl tighter, hard enough to spike rays of shooting pain through her bad arm. She is intensely out of her depth, and alone with the Night Warrior. Maiev is awake and alert now, not hindered by poison and anodynes, brutally aware that Tyrande slips beneath the waves, deeper and deeper with every passing breath.

"Bloodhoof!" Maiev shouts. He is there in an instant, never far out of reach, carefully watching their interactions from the shadows. Eavesdropping. She doesn't care about his prying anymore. They are past that now, and he must protect his people too.

"What's wrong, Arrowcatcher?" he asks, deep brown eyes still trained on Tyrande's unmoving form.

"Don't call me that," she snaps. "There is something wrong with her. We need Malfurion or Shandris. Both. Send for them."

Baine hesitates, "I will need to speak to the Warchief."

"Then quit stalling and beg her to loosen your leash," she spits. Maiev jerks her head toward Tyrande, "We need to do something before she does."

"What is she planning to do?"

"I haven't got a fucking clue," says Maiev. "But it's not good."

"Are you not," Baine pauses, "allies?"

_I don't know what we are,_ Maiev thinks.

She rolls her shoulders, suppressing the twisting sensation in her heart. She once loathed Tyrande with a passion, bitter and jealous, but how desperately she wants to hold her now: to keep her from drawing more blood, to keep her from spilling her own, until there is nothing left of either version of her but a decayed, empty husk. It is a horrible thing to feel so helpless.

"I am loyal to Whisperwind, not the Night Warrior. I've enough vengeance in myself to last a thousand of your lifetimes, bull, and I am not going to let her lose a fight to whatever's controlling her now." She drops down to her pillows, arms crossed. Her wounded hand pulses obnoxiously. 

Baine finally looks down at her, massive horns cutting through the dark winter air. The firelight casts deep shadows in the wrinkled lines of his brow, trepidation plain on his broad face. In a low rumble he asks, "What controls Tyrande?"

Maiev glares back. "I don't know. But it's not Elune."

* * *

Alleria's eyes flick up to the shoreline and the knife in her hand immediately stills. The flash of cobalt is far outside the Lor'danel camp boundary, but what shimmers out of existence is an unmistakable portal with a single occupant left kneeling in the white sands as if ill, or injured.

She has always been quick to spot movements in her periphery— and a faster shot than the rest of her family, if typically less accurate, mother and the twins always said so— but she has no Thas'dorah gleaming in her grasp today and she longs for something more protective than the half-dull kitchen knife that looms over a cutting board full of diced onions in her lap.

The ren'dorei work with her around the cooking fire, preparing food for lunch and dinner, clustered around empty crates and barrels and scrounging anything edible they can find to feed the others. Alleria herself tracked and killed a scrawny doe deep in the Darkshore forests after Shandris left for Orgrimmar that morning. Lora and Corion dress the small deer now, hung up by its ankles in the rickety butcher stall, but its meat can only feed so many.

Narrina shivers in her large coat, a knit cap squashing her ears as she cranes her neck to follow Alleria's line of sight. "What is it, commander? I can't see that far." The bowl of flour in her lap nearly tips as she leans, but she rights it just before catastrophe and begins absentmindedly sifting again. They have precious few resources left at the camp and she dares not waste their limited supply.

Alleria rises, handing the knife and board to Tyrell. From this distance she can just make out a shape, a tall person with blue hair, and her stomach clenches at the thought that Tyrande Whisperwind has abruptly returned home after weeks of rampaging and the vacuum of it: an unnerving, unnatural silence where her powerful presence used to exist. The lack of Tyrande is nearly as frightening as her horrors.

Alleria swallows thickly, and the Void dances on the edge of full embrace. Teldrassil looms across the sea, the haunting grey shadow her permanent focal point. The creature in the distance lurches forward, leaning into the waves with desperate vigor.

_I could match her_ , she thinks. _Even as she is now, I could match Tyrande if I must._

"It's nothing yet," she murmurs to Narrina. Whatever just appeared on their beaches, she has no desire for her void elves to investigate it without armor and weaponry.

The creature holds its head in its hands, rocking back and forth as if sobbing, the same way Shandris does when she wakes from nightmares of her parents and lost home. Alleria inhales sharply, her stomach dropping in recognition, and steps backwards into the black blanket of the void portal she rips into existence without a second thought.

She rushes forward to Shandris and falls to her knees before her, hands roaming her wet cheeks and bloody hands with growing terror. Her gauntlets rest discarded beside her knees, caked brown with the same blood that speckles her cheeks and lips. "What happened?" Alleria's voice cracks. Her hands cautiously wander the muscles of Shandris' forearms, searching for injuries she cannot find. "What _happened_ , sweetheart?"

"I hurt her!" Shandris cries out, tears streaming down her face. "I hurt her so badly."

Her words choke and stutter as she catches her breath, unable to explain herself coherently. Alleria scans the shoreline over her shoulder, looking for the two Sentinels who joined her in Orgrimmar, but she sees no sign of them. They'd traveled via their standard portal hub, just a ramshackle back room in the Inn, but to return by a random portal anchored to the outskirts of town bodes of danger. She needs to calm her. She needs answers.

Alleria strokes her hair, "Who did you hurt?"

"Sylvanas," Shandris moans. She keens into the base of her neck, sobbing as she pulls Alleria closer. Her hands are wet and freezing from being plunged into the frigid saltwater of the Veiled Sea where she'd tried and failed to clean herself of the stains. Her tears and drenched fingers soak into the thin fabric of Alleria's borrowed clothing, but she doesn't draw back. Ferocity and heat build in her chest, unfettered and eager.

The waves lap around their knees. She hears Shandris' disjointed words and makes some sense of them, piecing together a story in which Sylvanas remains at fault because she is _always_ at fault, and Shandris wouldn't hurt a fly without reason. Shandris is a good woman, the _best_ woman, not at all like her or her sisters and the multitude of afflictions they carry. Nausea wells up and distracts her, the same buzzing insistency she felt at the wedding two days ago. Her eyes drift to Teldrassil, glossy and dazed.

Alleria blinks hard. She pushes her hands beneath Shandris' armor, clinging to the clammy skin of her back and pulling her into a tighter embrace. Her anchor. There will never come a time she doesn't praise whatever gods are out there that she can touch her without pain: she can feel the pounding of her pulse and the warmth that radiates from her even now. Shandris' armor digs against her flesh as she shivers, but it's a small price to pay.

Alleria opens a portal to the their tent and whispers, "Can you stand for me? We need to get you out of the water. All right?"

Half-dragging her through, Alleria manages to rest Shandris' shaking form on their mattress. She unbuckles her armor piece by piece, wiping away the blood and saltwater from her skin with anything she can find: a blanket, a towel, her own navy skirt. She isn't good at this, at comfort and caretaking, but she knows Shandris is cold and her heart hurts, and she can at least attempt to fix those things.

"She taunted me and I just— _broke_ ," Shandris tips forward, slumping against Alleria's side, her body racked with sobs. Her heavy vambraces dig into Alleria's stomach, stinging her half-healed ribs, but she doesn't shift away. Fresh tears stain her shirt as Shandris coughs, "She called my mother a monster. She called _you_ a monster. I hurt her so badly, Alleria; she wanted me to hurt her."

The words send a chill up her spine. The shock of it is colder than she anticipated. Emptier. She doesn't have time to process or fill in the blank space inside her with rage because Shandris weeps and babbles, and she focuses her disconnected nerves and muscles on lowering her down to the pallet instead.

Shandris hides her face in the flat pillows of their bed and her fingers blindly reach out, searching for Alleria's hands. When she finds them she squeezes her so tightly it hurts— Alleria returns to herself from her far away stupor— and Shandris heaves, "I almost killed your little sister. I couldn't stop."

"But you did stop," Alleria whispers. "You stopped."

_You stopped despite her cruelties, and all the terrible things she's done and said._

"She wanted— she didn't fight back," Shandris gasps. "I wouldn't do that— I _couldn't_. She looked like you, Alleria. She wanted to die."

The shock returns to paralyze her. _There is a very dark cloud that follows some people_ , her father once told her when her mother lay curled in their bed, hiding from a world she couldn't manage. The twins had been dead for years, but her burdens were too great, and they ate her alive. _You and I are lucky that it doesn't follow us, and doesn't lead us down a path from which we can never return. But you need to help your mother, and your sisters too, in any way you can. Or that darkness will take them away from us._

She wasn't there for Vereesa when Rhonin died at Theramore. She wasn't there for Sylvanas when she made her last stand against the Lich King.

"I hurt her and I _wanted_ to, but I couldn't— I couldn't—" Shandris covers her mouth in shame.

_I love you,_ Alleria wants to tell her, but the words don't fully form, as if voicing them will ruin something beautiful. _You are too good, and I love you._

She cannot say it now, especially not for the first time, while Shandris sobs and crumbles, in some feeble attempt to suppress her emotions. Not like Turalyon used to do to her when they argued, forcing her to say it back, to sideline her feelings and distract from her point. She would never do something so ugly to Shandris. But she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that her feelings are true, and she knows even more how desperately she wants to voice them. She resolves to tell her soon, on a better day, a happier day.

Alleria speaks with her arms instead, wrapping Shandris in a tight embrace and settling beside her on the mattress. She strokes her back and hair and ears, wiping her tears as she sobs. Her heart races as she presses into Shandris' back, holding and soothing her with little whispers and reassurances. The woman curled in a tight ball before her holds the weight of all of Teldrassil's burning branches. Even presented with the opportunity to take revenge on the villain who caused so much malevolent death, who invited her own punishment _directly_ and bled both their peoples dry, Shandris couldn't kill her. Not without a fair fight.

It doesn't take long for Shandris' sobs to fade, or for her to collapse into a mournful slumber. It takes even less time for Alleria to disentangle herself, and to ward off the void and night elves who loiter outside the tent, asking after them. The two Sentinels who accompanied her to Orgrimmar return via portal, confusion painted across their features.

"They told us Lady Jaina sent her home," one of them says, sucking her lips into her teeth. "The Dark Rangers said the Sentinel-General didn't feel well."

Scorching betrayal twists in her stomach. Jaina is keeping secrets again, and this time at Shandris' expense, weaving some grand conspiracy with the Dark Rangers and their Warchief. Sylvanas probably mocks them both from the Horde capital, and Alleria hopes, she _prays_ , that Jaina does not join in such cruel ridicule despite her obvious hand in the cover up. No matter the show of contrition Sylvanas put on for Shandris— another of her mind games designed to tilt the scales in her favor— she is certainly all derision now. Alleria doesn't trust a thing she says.

Her mind skips like a stone across water, but no logical conclusion arises. Why do all of this? Why pick a fight with Shandris in the first place? To drag Alleria to Orgrimmar? To pressure her to sign the treaty? She has had enough of these ploys to force her hand. She will not abide her conniving sister dragging Shandris beneath the waves too.

"The Sentinel-General is well," Alleria says, her voice empty and cold. "Leave us to rest."

She turns back to the warmth of the tent, the ashes of a dwindling fire sputtering out in the center. As she stares down at Shandris' sleeping form, fury burns brightly, bubbling into existence and drowning out concern. Alleria's green armor rests in the corner of the tent next to the writing desk, piled beside Thas'dorah. Her lip curls up. She doesn't need them, either of them, not when she fully opens her mind to the power inside her. She doesn't need a weapon to kill her enemies, even one as powerful as her sister.

Alleria could wake Shandris, tell her where she's going and what she plans to do, but she doesn't want her to see her like this.

She embraces the Void.

The whole of Azeroth spins around her and she remains still, the starry purple expanse a dizzying blur. The Void envelopes her body, obsidian and star-flecked, simultaneously heavy and weightless. Alleria winces at the cacophony of voices that flood into her, a thunderous commotion in her mind despite the vacuous silence around her. She hates the way the Void subsumes her, but for all her discomfort it soothes and protects her with its hypnotic darkness. It has been so long since she's felt that relief.

She can see them all when she looks; every possibility spreading at the edges of her mind, boundless and unfathomable, full of whispered voices and gnawing screams. The voices tear through her mind, ten thousand desperate people crying out, and the ancient, rumbling power of the Old Gods an incomprehensible layer beneath it. One ear twitches despite the mental nature of the voices, straining to find an unfamiliar sound in the chaos. Alleria hears the chime of a woman's laughter, distant and rich. It curls through the whispered begging and shouted demands and sly warnings, a delighted thing. Alleria suppresses a shiver, but cannot help feeling that someone cruel laughs at her expense.

KILL THEM ALL. JOIN US. YOU WILL RETURN HOME WITH US. THERE IS SPACE FOR YOU WITH US. WE HAVE PURPOSE FOR YOU.

_Return home?_ Alleria chews the inside of her mouth. Images of Teldrassil's corpse flash behind her eyes, distorted and sickly grey. _That was never my home_ , she frowns, as if the Void has ever cared for her opinion _._

YOU HAVE NO FAMILY BUT US. DO NOT RESIST US.

Blackened tendrils curl around her, flicking impatiently as she rips open a portal through space. She doesn't have time to argue with the monstrosities in her head when her sister fills that niche so completely in the mundane world.

She has only the vaguest notion of the geography of Orgrimmar, but even that inconsequential amount is more than she needs. Unlike mages and most of her ren'dorei, Alleria is not beholden to arcane limitations, and exact coordinates matter little to her. She has seen Grommash Hold on a map, and knows where to find it. Roughly.

The portal envelopes her. She can feel stonework around her— a wall, a floor, a ceiling— and shifts her portal appropriately until she feels an open space like a large room. There is a slight resistance— some arcane ward of great power for her to sense it at all— but it isn't designed to stop her. She slips through it like water from a fisherman's net, leaving it untouched. She blinks into the orange-tiled room and first sees Warchief's throne, a massive, imposing chair surrounded by lit sconces and huge ivory tusks.

Her eyes flit up to the weapons crossed over the throne, her mother's short swords, and her lips part in wonder and shock. Selama and Merd'an loom like a guillotine overhead: elegant, shining steel mounted on a wooden placard. Above them there is a space for a bow, for Thas'dorah, and a rush of cold fury fossilizes her insides.

SHE MOCKS YOUR BIRTHRIGHT. END HER. MURDER HER. SAVE YOURSELF AND MURDER HER. RETURN HOME. RETURN HOME.

Alleria grinds her teeth to quell the discord. She turns slowly to the rest of the throne room, the turbulence of her righteous indignation and the churning of the voices masked by the lifeless negative of her darkened face. The orange firelight disappears against the vacuum her purple skin, alien and unnatural, her hair a crown of luminescent white.

Anya Eversong, Sylvanas' Dark Ranger-Captain, kneels in the center of the throne room, her mouth slack. She is surrounded by rusty-pink suds, her drenched hands caught mid-motion as she wrings out a bloody rag into a bucket. Anya pauses in her task, petrified, a kneeling statue with wide, red eyes. The only sound is the slow trickle of dirty water into the metal pail before her.

Alleria gazes down imperiously, shadowy tendrils coiling behind her. Her voice is layered with the vicious whispers that slip past her lips as she demands, "Where is she?"

Anya's left ear twitches once in terror, then she vanishes. The rag hangs midair for an instant before it drops into the bucket with a splash.

Alleria scoffs. Invisibility is a useless ability against her in this form: she can feel creatures travel through space like ripples on water, echoes of where they were and where they're going, little shadowy imprints of possibility and choice. She feels Anya's silhouette rise silently, backing away toward the wide wooden doors to the hallway.

Even without the gargantuan power of the Void bolstering her, Alleria is one of Azeroth's finest trackers. She remains still; only her bright blue eyes follow the footprints in the bloody puddle, the near-silent sounds of Anya's tip-toeing, the drip of soapy water from her skin. She can afford the head start: it will lead her to her prey. Anya hunches by the door, one trembling hand on the latch, staring back at Alleria as if waiting for her to turn away before making her escape.

Alleria smiles faintly, her fangs bare. She murmurs, "I see you."

Anya exhales a short, stuttering breath, then bolts through the door. Alleria surges forward, keeping enough space to let Anya's panicked footfalls guide her through the halls to Sylvanas, never losing sight of her target. It thrills her, this sordid hunt. She sprints through Grommash Hold without weapons, without armor, bloodlust pounding in her ears as loud as all the whispers, furious with Sylvanas for what she did to Shandris, for stealing away their mother's swords, for wearing her wedding dress, for holding hostage their necklaces.

Alleria speeds through the halls, passing the horrified faces of other Dark Rangers in a blur. She never signed the peace treaty. She isn't here for peace.

They bound up one staircase and down another, dashing through Grommash Hold and past the faces of shocked onlookers. She hears voices cry out, the sounds drowned in her whispers, but she gains on Anya Eversong step by step. Alleria smiles wildly, a hunting dog snapping at her heels, frenzied by the chase. It was a foolish thing to try to outsprint a Windrunner.

A weight slams into her, a mere hiccup in her trajectory, as Nathanos Blightcaller attempts to tackle her from behind. She feels arms wrap around her neck, another Dark Ranger, no, two of them— Marrah, the brunette from the wedding, and her wife, Cyndia; she remembers them from Silvermoon somehow, a laughing couple in the forest— and she slams all three of them into the stone walls. They crumple and groan and she keeps moving, eyes fixed on her target.

Two more Dark Rangers face her at the top of the spiraling staircase, one— the one who repeatedly danced with Yrel— vaults Nathanos and clings to her Void-blanketed feet in a vain attempt to trip her, and the other opens the wooden doors to usher Anya inside what must be the Warchief's quarters before drawing her double short swords.

Alleria huffs a laugh, kicking off the one wrapped around her feet as easily as toeing out of sandals, and slaps the swords out of the other's hands. They go clanging to the tiled ground, slipping down the stairs, and Alleria grabs the front of the disarmed Ranger's armor. This one resembles Anya, her wide red eyes like saucers as she peers down at the unforgiving grasp on her cuirass. Alleria lifts her off the ground one-handed.

"Sylvanas!" Anya cries as she falls into the room, dropping her invisibility. Her words clip short as her doppelganger's body slams into her from behind with a violent _crunch_ , and the two of them go hurtling across the suite, crumpling into a pile before the low table.

"Raaaahhhh!" bellows Nathanos. He charges Alleria for a sucker punch, and his fist connects with the side of her face like a slab of meat on a boulder. "Shit!" he winces, cradling his hand. She blinks impassively at him before lobbing him into a large wooden globe of Azeroth in the corner, crushing it to splinters beneath his weight.

Alleria takes in the rest of the room, the black tendrils of her Void form caressing the doorframe. Sylvanas and Jaina share a sofa, both of them sitting bolt-upright and ready to fight, a blue arcane barrier curved around them. Sylvanas hunches like an animal, her knees digging into the cushions, positioning herself between Jaina and the door. Jaina's floral magic scent swells in the air from the barrier, cloying and sweet, and the voices in Alleria's mind immediately respond to them.

KILL HER. END HER. SHE WILL BETRAY YOU. SHE IS NOT YOUR FAMILY. SHE LIES. TAKE THE MAGE.

Sylvanas takes in the state of her Rangers and bares her teeth, stepping unsteadily in front of Jaina, who still clutches the sleeve of her grey pajama shirt in a death grip. Even through her rage, Alleria quails when she gets a good look at them. Sylvanas is absolutely thrashed, pommeled bloody with scrapes and bruises and one swollen eye, as if a malicious giant bashed in her face. She supposes in that moment that she underestimated what Shandris told her, though it is now clear that she didn't exaggerate her strength or savagery at all.

Then there is the second thought, a softer one that cuts more deeply: Alleria hasn't seen Sylvanas in pajamas since they were children. In the silky fabric she looks small and vulnerable, her injuries not withstanding, and Jaina stands beside her a gaunt, toppling figure with sweat plastering white hair to her forehead. Collectively, they look atrocious.

Alleria remembers Sylvanas with a pretty girl on her arm, dancing and proud at a ball in Silvermoon, celebrating her graduation from Ranger training. She remembers when Sylvanas was young, as young as Vereesa's boys, and her mare spooked at a snake so abruptly it bucked her off and she fell to the trail _hard_ , her shoulder dislocated.

Alleria wasn't the eldest Windrunner then— Seldor was, by four whole minutes, and he was sure to remind his twin at every possible opportunity of his rightful place in the pecking order— and she was less responsible, a child in their eyes despite her hundreds of years when Sylvanas was barely twenty. They were both little sisters and always would be, something to protect and defend and pester, until there were no more brothers above or below, and no more parents either, and the Windrunner girls were left to their own deficient devices.

But she remembers most how Aithlin crouched down, distracting Sylvanas by plucking leaves from her butter-gold hair, while Seldor popped her shoulder back into socket with no warning at all. How Sylvanas stared daggers at Alleria, gritting her teeth through the pain, but never wept or cried out. She was a special child, resolute and clever, and Alleria was so proud of her. She never told her that.

Sylvanas looks like that girl in the forest, deep in the throes of a pain she can't or won't express: too prideful for her own good, too committed to being strong for everyone else's sake.

Alleria's Void form sloughs away, and the screams fade to whispers in the back of her mind. She stands in silence, the only sound her ragged panting, shoulders hunched. Sylvanas and Jaina loosen their posture, but the magic barrier between them remains fixed in place.

"This was an antique!" snarls Nathanos from all fours, waving a shard engraved with the Shimmering Flats in his good hand.

"She threw me," moans not-Anya from beneath the table. The other three Dark Rangers stagger up from the stairwell, peering in through the open doors with varying levels of shock and horror on their faces, weapons drawn.

Anya rises, still panicked, and helps the woman beneath her to her feet, her hands still slippery with soapy water. "This is my fault. I ran for you, Dark Lady," she says quickly. "I'm so sorry; she followed me. We couldn't stop her."

Sylvanas does not turn to face her. Her one crimson eye latches on to Alleria's scowling visage and does not waver. She asks in a clipped, efficient staccato, "Casualty report."

"Cosmetic damages. Minor injuries, forces only. No losses," Anya replies formally, a trained Ranger through-and-through.

Sylvanas' eye surveys her soldiers for a moment, lingering on Nathanos' bloody hands and the growing lump on not-Anya's head. When she is satisfied that the injuries are in fact minor, the two-voiced banshee creeps into her tone and she says, "Clear the room."

The Dark Rangers cast furtive glances in her direction before obeying orders, skulking out of the room and closing the wooden doors. The Void presses at the back of Alleria's skull, hungry for her embrace, as if she's thinned the barrier she set between them by using her power. The tension in the room tugs at her, and the temptation to blink into her Void form grows stronger. There is still fury in her, sharp and persistent, and she would see Sylvanas dead before letting her hurt Shandris again.

"Alleria," Jaina warns, reading the snarl on her face. 

"I don't want to hear from you, Jaina. This is between me and her, so let the coward speak," she spits back.

Sylvanas bares her teeth, her movements uncharacteristically jerky, as if she struggles to move at all. "That's rich, coming from you."

Jaina steps between them like a fool, like Vereesa did at the Spire. She faces Sylvanas, peering up into her face, one hand reaching behind her to prevent Alleria from closing the gap between them. She croaks, "Do not do this. I need you both to stop, right now."

KILL HER KILL HER END HER PROTECT US PROTECT YOURSELF TAKE THE MAGE END HER

"Move, Jaina," Alleria forces out.

SHE IS NOT YOUR SISTER WE ARE YOUR FAMILY KILL THE ABOMINATION TAKE THE MAGE CHOOSE THE RIGHT PATH COME HOME KILL HER COME HOME

She can barely hear herself over the chaos in her mind. The Void splits her skull with agony and noise, the voices as loud as she's ever heard outside of a full embrace. She cannot survive the din; she cannot fight like this. She embraces the Void and reality bends to her will again: ten million destinies and all the cosmos realign. Its power is a comfort. There is no pain in the Void.

"No! Please stop," begs Jaina. "Please, please stop—"

"Talk?" shouts Sylvanas. Her voice pitches an octave, shrill and dangerous, "Then let's _talk_!"

Her body erupts into shadows of her own, and the gruesome form of a despairing, wailing banshee hovers behind Jaina like a storybook nightmare. They surge forward into each other, the ancient forces pushing them apart like magnetic repulsion, like there is too much energy in this room, this city, this planet, and it cannot contain them both. And just before reality frays at the edges and all is lost in the conflict—

Jaina screams, " _Sit the fuck down_!"

A tidal wave crashes down on them, stronger than the weight of the ocean, deeper, angrier, less forgiving. The room pitches in arcane gossamer lines so bright even Alleria flinches, and a layer of ice glistens on every surface. The Death and Void energy vanish like candles snuffed out, severed by a wintery arcane blade. A decapitating, prodigious force as powerful as Alleria has ever felt.

The screams inside her stop for a moment, shocked into silence, and she steps back to steady herself against an ice-slicked couch. Only one whisper remains, giddy with laughter, impressed and delighted by Jaina's display. A giggle burbles up in Alleria's throat, a voice that's not her own, an amusement she doesn't share, but she swallows it whole and stares at the women before her, taking a seat on the opposite sofa and ignoring the rock-hard ice beneath her.

Jaina's glowing eyes flicker out and she stumbles against Sylvanas, who dropped her shadowy form and unsteadily catches her against her chest. She slowly lowers Jaina to the sofa by the shoulders, then plops down beside her. They do not touch.

"Now talk," Jaina commands. "Or leave."

Sylvanas bristles in the quiet for a long moment, her open eye fixed on Alleria's clothes. Ultimately she obeys, her words slightly slurred from the puffy shape of her busted lips, "Your little girlfriend almost killed me."

"Stop it!" Jaina shouts, pointing to Sylvanas face. She buries her mouth in her elbow, coughing violently before she finishes her thought, "You started it, goaded her to violence, and violated your own peace treaty. We have settled things with Shandris as best we can for now, and you get to own up to your mistakes with Alleria too."

"Technically, only Feathermoon violated the peace treaty," Sylvanas mutters.

"Don't start that," Alleria clenches her jaw. "I will tell _everyone_ what you did, and put you on tribunal so fast—"

"Stop!" Jaina turns to Alleria, the circles beneath her eyes nearly dark enough to match Sylvanas' bruises. "You stop too! Use your brain! Who will suffer the most from this? It won't be Sylvanas; it will be Shandris and her people. You may not have signed the Unification Treatise but you certainly read it, and you know what she did is a major violation, no matter how it came to pass."

Jaina begins to cough again and waves one hand in a flourish, vanishing the heavy layer of ice in the living room. Alleria sinks into the cushions, watching as Jaina approaches. She wheezes a sigh, crossing the low table, skewed from where Alleria flung the Dark Rangers into it, with a dead pigeon atop it. Alleria blinks at the bird. She has many questions but really doesn't want the answer to that one.

Jaina sits beside her on the sofa and takes her hand, warm with fever but just as loving as she always was in Stormwind and Boralus. Before any of this happened. Before she married Sylvanas. In a voice scratchy with illness she murmurs, "You're in on this wretched lie now, whether you like it or not. And we have to protect Shandris."

Alleria holds her hands against her better judgment, staring at the silver anchor pendant around her neck. She is suddenly so tired, worn paper-thin, and if they held her up to the light they could see right through her, transparent and empty. Her eyes rise up to Sylvanas', whose expression softens as she stares at their intertwined fingers. There is no jealousy or anger on her little sister's face for once, only something thoughtful and still, laced up with regret. When she realizes she's been caught, her visage warps into its patented scowl: steel hard and merciless in undeath.

It could have been Alleria— it _should_ have been her, not her little sister. Sylvanas took up the mantle of the Ranger General when Alleria ran away, off to another adventure, abandoning her responsibilities, always running. They called her brave and valorous, the rightful bearer of Thas'dorah. 

How could they understand her lifelong pursuit of knowledge and danger? How could they understand that she had the darkness her father warned her about too? But she wouldn't hide and decay away like mother; she would flee, leaving everyone and everything behind for a chance to escape herself. Running offers respite from the truth of her own inadequacies: she is not a good general, not a good sister, not a good mother. The whispers say so too.

"Do you have anything to say, Sylvanas?" prods Jaina.

Sylvanas crosses her legs. "You smell like onions."

Alleria balks at the sudden insult. "I was _cooking_."

"You can cook?"

"Shut up," she snaps.

Sylvanas waves a hand. "If you can't take a joke, don't be one, Alleria." 

Jaina heaves a beleaguered sigh. "Alleria, I think you should go home, unless you'd like to discuss this more. Today has been," her gaze flicker to Sylvanas, who meets her eyes for the briefest moment, "a lot. I can make you a portal—"

"No," says Sylvanas. "Make your own portal. Jaina needs to sleep and you need to stop destroying Horde property."

"I _will_ make my own portal, and _you_ need to stop picking fights—"

"Enough of this," Jaina scolds, squeezing her hand.

Alleria nods, resigned. The Void presses at her insistently, tickling the back of her tired mind. It caresses more than prods today, almost subtle in its approach, and she loathes how much more appealing it seems. _More flies with honey than vinegar_ , she thinks, and a little chuckle chimes in her head again.

She tears open a portal near the door. She would normally relish the chance to leave a tense situation, to avoid the possibility of a multiplying panic attack, but she has done no good for Shandris. There is no punishment or retribution or solace. She has, like always, accomplished nothing.

"I—" Alleria begins, but the words die off. Her lower lip trembles but she will not cry in front of Sylvanas. She refuses to give her that satisfaction, but needs to speak her piece. "You hurt Shandris very badly."

"I never laid a hand on her," Sylvanas lowly replies.

"That's not what I meant," Alleria shakes her head and her voice breaks, and she can tell from the way Jaina reaches an arm around her shoulders that she must be a pitiful sight indeed. Alleria sits up straight, ashamed of her weakness and too proud to grant herself the catharsis of tears. She doesn't miss the way Sylvanas keeps quiet, her guilty, battered face turned to the ground.

"It will not happen again," Sylvanas mutters. She lets the words linger for a moment then rises painfully to her feet, obviously sore from her thrashing, to escort her sister out, ever the statesman.

Alleria stands too, tugging Jaina up with her. The Lord Admiral does not look well, her breathing harsh and laborious. Though Alleria notes that Jaina does not appear any more fatigued from expending a colossal amount of mana, as if she has already recovered from a feat that would have killed a lesser mage.

Jaina's feet drag on the rug as she moves to the bedroom, her shoulders slouched, body small in her blue nightgown. Just before Alleria strides through her portal to Lor'danel, Jaina smiles, "I am going to sleep now. If either of you wake me again, I will end you both myself."

The coy whisper laughs again, smooth and full and fickle, and Alleria calcifies at the clarity of the sound. She stands in the Sentinel-General's tent, Shandris' tent, her ears piqued, her focus a thousand leagues away. It is as clear as a woman exhaling sweetly into her ear, and she feels her sifting through her mind's eye like she idly turns pages in a book. Alleria's body grows cold and dim, distant even from herself, even from Shandris still sleeping at her feet, and her thoughts turn inward, slow and stupefied.

_Has this happened before?_ she thinks to herself, lethargic and detached. Her mouth tastes of ash and silver.

"No, pet," soothes the voice. "You would remember me."

The voice explores her flickering memories: Sylvanas in their mother's wedding dress, her gaze upon Teldrassil, Shandris atop her on the forest floor, Shandris atop her in their tent, the twins restringing her bow, Turalyon screaming his disappointment, her gaze upon Teldrassil, Arator and Anduin dancing, her siblings tangled and asleep in her bed at the Spire, her hands shaking as she refused to sign the peace treaty, Vereesa and Liadrin racing down the trail, her parents' blessing at her graduation ceremony, her gaze upon Teldrassil.

Alleria blinks and the imprint of Teldrassil shines brightly behind her eyelids, buzzing with life. A new home.

"How delightful," croons the voice in her mind.

"How delightful," repeats Alleria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just get a case of the giggle-whispers and that's definitely not a huge problem.


	37. Vereesa, Velonara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different.

She's not certain she can hold a conversation with Genn Greymane as easily as she did with Thalyssra, but he invited her to breakfast and she woke that morning determined to try. Vereesa rose early to prepare the twins for their tutors— Gnomish and mathematics today, no one's favorites, least of all hers— and to meet her Silver Covenant at the sprawling training fields behind Stormwind Keep. Her clothes clung to her skin, clammy with sweat in the chill morning air, but she felt the power of her back muscles as she drew her bow, and the pounding of her heart as she raced through the obstacle course with her Rangers.

She crossed the finish line third, surprised to even rank among the winners after being so long out of practice, and felt as rusty at racing as she did waltzing on the _Admiral's Pride_ a fortnight ago. Still, she beat most of her soldiers and was determined to increase the rigor of her squadrons' drills. Either the other Rangers let her win, or they'd been slacking off without the oversight of their Ranger-General. Neither outcome was acceptable. Cethil slung her arm around Vereesa's shoulders as Aurin sprawled spread eagle at her feet, panting in the dirt, and a thousand memories resurfaced in her of how often she used to train with them before Rhonin died, and how much she enjoyed their company. She breathed hard too— the raw ache of Rhonin's memory burned in her chest but she allowed it to exist a moment longer, awake and aware of the pain it still caused, surprised that she could acknowledge her grief at all, much less without tears— before she inhaled deeply and steadied her resolve. She grinned at her Rangers, and for the first time in months her smile felt full.

"It seems some of you have been neglecting your sprint drills. Back to the line," she said, relishing their groans of protest like a long-forgotten song.

Now, after a shower and change of clothes, she sits bundled in a winter cloak at a small outdoor café in the Mage Quarter across from Genn, nursing her green tea as their food arrives. The arcane heating web bubbles overhead, glittering when the sunlight catches it, and exuding a comfortable warmth across the patio. Though it fails to reliably block the biting wind. She thinks Jaina would have something to say about that, scribbling notes and improvements on the back of a napkin to provide to the proprietor, and Thalyssra would simply fix it with a quiet spell of her own. She smiles and thanks the server, draping a white cloth napkin in her lap. After this morning's exercise she's absolutely ravenous, another sensation she hasn't felt in some time.

"Jaina fares well," says Vereesa, admiring the over-easy eggs, potatoes, and bacon on her porcelain plate. "She says she still has a bit of a cough, but nothing like before."

Genn grunts, swallowing a breakfast sausage. He waits for a nearby waiter to pass out of earshot before he mutters, "Anduin said as much. I don't know what they're doing in Grommash Hold but it taking two weeks for their _Warqueen_ to recover is a testament to the Horde's ineptitude. They're working her like a rented mule. She should have come back to Stormwind or Proudmoore Keep."

The Gilnean Royal Guard mingles with her Rangers outside, casually alert as they chat with each other. She recalls the mistrust of her soldiers with Thalyssra's spell-fencers at their first meeting, and wonders how long it will take the Alliance and Horde to become true allies, if it can ever happen at all. She knows Genn and Varok have yet to set their first peer meeting, and they aren't the only ones. Granted, she hadn't seen Thalyssra since the wedding when she barely said another word to her after they went above deck, fireworks flashing a rainbow of colors over Orgrimmar Harbor. Vereesa frightened her with her proximity, over-excited and under-familiar; she's certain of it. Thalyssra could barely look at her again after they danced and she touched her. She couldn't explain the strange tension she felt or the desire to be near her, or how much it hurt when she turned away in a rush, leaving a gap unfilled and words unspoken. Vereesa assures herself that she is simply lonely.

But the First Arcanist is a kind woman, and she humors her still. She responds to her letters, the most recent of which sits heavy in her cloak pocket, asking after Vereesa and the boys, sprinkled with little details about her day, her concerns about the Reparations Council, and her studies on the strange interruptions in Azeroth's leyline energies. Magic is not at all Vereesa's specialty, but knew enough from Rhonin and Jaina to formulate a semi-intelligent reply. At least she hopes her mind wouldn't flee her again when she finally sat down to pen her response.

"Jaina had pneumonia, Genn. Recovering takes time," she softly says. "I doubt she would have run home and abandoned her post, no matter how ill she really was. She's always taken things seriously."

Her mind shifts to Theramore, and how much of herself Jaina poured into the city, only to watch it vanish in an instant. She would never know how Jaina recovered from so profound a loss— the years of work, her bodyguard-tuned-friend-turned-lover, her clever and promising apprentice, her _home_ — not when Vereesa could barely manage becoming a widow. She swallows thickly and adds salt to her crispy potatoes just to break her train of thought.

Genn says, "She's much too headstrong."

"And _just_ strong," says Vereesa, slicing through the bright yellow yolks of her eggs. "I believe she knows her limits, even if she pushes against them on occasion."

"Yes, yes, and you will defend her from all criticism, even if it's in her best interests to listen to the worried old man. I've already told her not to attend the orphanage birthday party. Anduin and I can handle it, and she's already spread too thin." He jabs at his fluffy scrambled eggs with a fork. "Let's hope your sister is even half as loyal as you are when it comes to Jaina."

_She is. No matter how dreadfully they fight._

Even at the wedding when her elder sisters engaged in a slapping match that Liadrin would have found very amusing, she knows that they would be the first to defend each other. She swallows her food slowly, reaching for her water. She wonders if Liadrin would still defend her too. Undoubtedly not. Her memories in the aftermath of Theramore are hazy, but she feels remnants of white hot rage: her hatred for the Sunreavers and their betrayal. She slew them indiscriminately in the streets of Silvermoon, pouring their blood on the roads she used to travel with Liadrin when they were young, shopping at the markets and visiting their friends.

But she remembers Liadrin's stern, unforgiving face and bright orange hair during the Battle of Suramar. They stood on the same side, aligned against the same enemy, and spoke not a word to each other though they had once been as close as sisters. _No_ , she remains convinced. _Liadrin will never defend me again._

Vereesa sets down her fork with an exhale. "I don't think it will be a concern for Jaina and Sylvanas. Or at least it will be a lesser one."

"Hm. They have sufficient issues to last a titan's lifetime, many of which are the banshee's fault, but let's hope they won't kill each other. Or at least that Jaina will win." Genn slathers heaps of butter onto his toast, obviously feeling both bitter and lavish without his wife around to moderate. "Though Tess tells me there are just as many domestic issues here as there are abroad. The Eastern Kingdoms has its own share of troubles, and Westfall has grown silent," he takes a large bite, covering his mouth with his hand, "which is a concern in itself. There's _always_ a problem in Westfall."

Vereesa nods, glancing around at the other tables, full of patrons undoubtedly talking about happier, lighter subjects. That would never be her lot in life. She says, "The Defias activity in Westfall is dwindling, though I don't know why. Moira had concerns that they might be involved with the Loyalist bombing in Ironforge, but a single red bandana in the pocket of an agitator is not enough evidence to draw that connection. Still, will you mention it to Anduin for me?" 

Genn huffs, "If you tell your nephew to stop distracting the High King. They're worse than Tess and Lorna."

"I doubt that," Vereesa chuckles.

Genn raises an eyebrow in protest before he thinks better of it, tilting his head in agreement. "At least our shores are quiet, unlike Kalimdor. Naga in their harbor, and nary a trading sloop to be seen. Did you know they're rerouting our goods to Ratchet? It's the only place allowing clearance for our ships. SI:7 reports the Horde has lost all control of their commerce, which should come as no surprise. They can't seem to stop whoever's behind this and ultimately the kaldorei refugees are the ones who suffer the most. In Dark Shore and Thunder Bluff both." He points vehemently with his fork. "You can bet I'll bring it up at the Reparations Council. They'll get nothing from us without righting these wrongs."

Vereesa nods, but never manages to match Genn's level of agitation. She suspects the Horde is less duplicitous now than ever before, less likely to defraud and mislead for their own gain. She could see on Sylvanas' dour face the importance of maintaining the peace, the way her responsibilities sat heavy on her dignified shoulders the same way their mother bore it, lightened when Jaina threaded her hand through her arm. For all their history and differences, they are aligned and will do what they must do. And, if Vereesa ranked her major socio-political concerns at this point, the arranged marriage of her estranged sister and overworked best friend would not even make the top three.

"Jaina says Tyrande is still in Thunder Bluff, but the black moon of Dark Shore remains," Vereesa gently adds. "I don't know why, but I assumed it would... follow her? It worries me that she's created a second somehow. She's so powerful," Vereesa stumbles on her words, "it just— feels like she shouldn't be able to do that. It's too much, even after the ritual of the Night Warrior, and Baine reported that she isn't— she isn't like herself."

"And Malfurion is nowhere to be found, eclipses be damned. It's unnatural," he mutters, lip curling into a snarl, "blocking the moon."

Her heart hurts for Malfurion, though they were never as close as she was with Shandris or Tyrande. She knows his loss like she knows Jaina's: a city destroyed, a lover gone, the work of a lifetime wiped from the surface of the earth. She supposes he could return to the Emerald Dream and the solace of nature in its purest form, though the risk of corruption is great and he barely survived his last journey. She wonders too if he would crave that solitude again, or if he is lonely like she is.

Stormwind was her own retreat in the days after Theramore, and Jaina's steadiness was the only thing that kept her from falling off the brink of collapse into a sorrow from which she could never recover, from a choice she could never unmake. Jaina, with her broken, mana-racked body and unnatural white hair, who lived in agony worse than Vereesa would ever know, was still strong enough to keep them both alive. Jaina understood, and Jaina bore it all.

Vereesa stares into the dregs of her tea, the cup growing cool in her palms. She isn't ancient like Malfurion, and for all her love of the forest, she is as far from Life magic as she is from Thalyssra's prodigious power of arcane Order. They share very little in common but she wonders who Malfurion could turn to. Just as she needed safe arms to hold her— a friend, a supporter, someone who understands— she imagines he must crave that safety too. Who, in his time of deepest sorrow, could be relied upon to be strong?

It strikes her as she gazes at the grainy bits welling in her cup that, in her long life and many adventures, Vereesa can think of only one being capable of understanding the core of Azeroth's first archdruid. She remembers the feral beauty of her too, the power rippling beneath the surface of her bronze skin, and the sunlight brimming in her eyes, glowing in the deepest caverns of Grim Batol. The unforgiving scrape of dark iron chains, the dried blood in her mouth, a loving creature ruined by monstrosity and violence: teetering on the edge of repaying what was done to her, her rage contained by force of will alone, the pooling magma waiting to erupt, to unleash when she deemed right the time. To be near her too long felt like drawing a breath after drowning: the painful expansion of lungs, destructive and vibrant, a forest burned and blooming all at once.

Vereesa and Rhonin freed her with shaking, reverent hands, and watched in awe as she incinerated the Dragonmaw clan. She ate them alive without mercy or quarter, the monsters who dared hold her captive, who mangled her family. When she was done with them her magic swirled in the carnage, and she reverted back to her high elf form, as if shrinking her body could make small her torment too. They watched her weep for her eggs, kneeling in the spattered mess of what remained of her children.

The Life-Binder, Alexstrasza, would understand Tyrande and Malfurion both.

"Do you think," Vereesa says so lowly that Genn leans forward and his thick eyebrows knit together, "that Malfurion might have gone to Wyrmrest Temple?"

He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his navy greatcoat, steely eyes keen and contemplative. "That's a very interesting thought," he replies after a long stretch of silence. "I'll bring that up with Anduin as well."

"If he is," Vereesa wavers, " _there_ , with Queen Alexstrasza, I would go. The red dragonflight was informed of the Unification Treatise but we haven't sent a delegate. I am on good terms with her."

Her own body quivered as she lifted Alexstrasza to her bare, bloody feet, gasping when the dragon queen screamed into her chest, a keening wail of unfathomable suffering. She and Rhonin were completely helpless as they held her in the cursed stone corridors of Grim Batol, too young and inexperienced and unscathed to scratch the surface of her pain. Even after losing her parents and brothers and sisters, Vereesa couldn't comprehend the choking pressure that bore down to ruin her, hot with misery, an all-encompassing smoke filling her lungs.

Vereesa thinks she understands more now. Alexstrasza would see a reflection of her own sorrow in an instant.

"Yes, we'll see," Genn says, poking at his scrambled eggs. "We'd not send you alone though, even to the Temple. You know them well, and Malfurion may be able to help with whatever is happening to Tyrande, but we must do this intelligently. We need them both back at once. Shandris is performing admirably but the stress of additional leadership and familial upheaval is obviously killing her. I've never seen her look so nervous."

Vereesa hadn't seen Shandris since the wedding, where she was bright and happy and somehow glued to Alleria's side in a way they both clearly enjoyed, but Anduin and Genn both mentioned that she seemed to be tearing apart at the seams, paranoid and distracted. Vereesa asks, "Do you think she'll manage at the Reparations Council? It's only three days away."

Genn sips his coffee and sighs. "Hard to say. I'll be there with her, and I think the Horde delegates are fair overall, but any instability on our front could put the Alliance at a disadvantage we can't afford."

Vereesa sucks her lips between her teeth. It may be overstepping, but she knows Thalyssra would mind Shandris if she asked her to, no matter the strange distance left between them at the wedding. 

Their waiter returns to refill their drinks, and they both thank him politely, hyper-conscious of potentially being overheard. Vereesa has Aurin posted outside, her only Ranger available capable of seeing through invisibility, and the odds of a particularly ambitious rogue spying on them is slim. Though Vereesa acknowledges that Valeera Sanguinar has certainly pulled more dangerous stunts in her day, it seems unlikely that she would waste time on them. The irreverent blonde has been quite sullen and withdrawn lately. Vereesa shifts in her wooden chair, thumbing the letter in her pocket. She supposes she should worry about Valeera's sudden change in behavior too.

"Speaking of disadvantages: Katherine informed me that she's invited Jaina and the banshee to dinner." Genn stares pointedly at her, waiting for a response he doesn't receive. "She's the First Lady of the Fleet. Katherine's going to make her walk the Captain Line. It's traditional." When Vereesa offers only a confused pursing of lips, he adds, "They're going to rip her apart."

"The Kul Tirans?"

"Of course. Their little charade won't pass muster with the sailors. I'm telling you now they'll see through that ruse, to say nothing of her total lack of naval knowledge."

This time Vereesa squints at him. She is less numb to comments about Sylvanas recently, as if the firm line between her sister and the banshee first blurred after the trial of Garrosh Hellscream, and is now faint enough for her to cross without meaning to. She remembers Sylvanas in her wedding dress, their mother's wedding dress, dancing with Arator and Anduin and Jaina. How beside them she looked almost alive. She can't begrudge Genn his hatred of Sylvanas, but for all the time he spends complaining about her sister, he knows very little of her.

"I imagine she's studied her ships, Genn. She overprepares for everything. And I don't think her commitment to the Admiralty is a ruse. She and Jaina are clearly allies, and they're literally married," she sips her tea, considering that Sylvanas and Jaina have several traits in common, over-preparedness aside. They would likely butt heads about everything, just for the sake of arguing. "They can certainly be cordial and professional. It's not like anyone expects _petting_ from the Lord and Lady Admiral, except those awful tabloids."

"You'd be surprised," Genn grunts. "You obviously never saw Daelin and Katherine mingle with their people. That tight-laced attitude is an act. It was like watching teenagers paw all over each other and the sailors loved it. Even Mia expects to be pulled in my lap at some point during the evening when we're in Boralus. 'She's my lass; I'm her lad,' and all that. It's customary."

Vereesa cringes. She knows the Kul Tirans have different standards for public displays of affection than even the liberal norms of Silvermoon, but she can't recall a single instance lacking in propriety when she and Rhonin visited a decade ago. She supposes they were primarily confined to the Keep, attending formal dinners and spending time with Jaina in the library. They certainly didn't walk the docks with a line of sailors measuring the acceptability and cohesion of their relationship by how overtly touchy it was, or by how much the Lord Admiral's new wife knew of their expansive fleet.

He continues, "I tell you this: the sailors expect devotion and Jaina's making a mistake if she doesn't enforce at least the semblance of it."

"I'm not sure it's even _possible_ to enforce devotion," says Vereesa, buttering her own slice of toasted sourdough. "They have an arrangement, but they're not pretending to be in love. They tolerate each other for the greater good."

Genn shrugs. "Then they should prepare for choppy seas and bad press. They did a decent enough job at the wedding, but I doubt their little contrivances are sustainable. They'll need a better showing in Boralus."

The bread is warm and perfectly tangy, airy and rich with a layer of fresh butter. She chews thoughtfully, and suspects Sylvanas would never accept cheapening her role as Warchief by doing anything that could be perceived as bawdy. Not even for the sake of gaining Kul Tiran approval.

She wonders how Thalyssra would feel about that sort of overt affection. She held her hand at the dinner table and let Vereesa touch her a little, and dance a bit too, but always drew away when she wanted to keep her closer, side-by-side in the kitchen or saying farewell on the porch. The thoughts embarrass her, and she swallows thickly. It grows harder and harder for her to differentiate what she wants from Thalyssra from what she cannot have from Rhonin, as if her loss could propagate and blossom anew in a substitute body. She returns to her senses feeling dejected and delusional, hollow in the ways that still haunt her at night when she brushes her hair in the mirror, and hates how much she resembles her mother. 

The background noise filters into her awareness and Genn is still talking between bites, apparently about his precarious social situation with Varok Saurfang and their mutual desire to never meet again. The bread remains frozen mid-air before her mouth, and she takes another a bite before she forgets to keep eating entirely. She used to love this café, which was why Genn suggested it in the first place.

"Then there's Tess and the shortest possible straw to draw in this pairing fiasco," Genn grumbles. "She's going to cut out Gallywix's eyes if he leers at Lorna again, and I'll be the first to support it. I'd not be surprised if she lodges a formal complaint with Anduin and Jaina soon. She should have done it the moment they were paired." He turns an appraising eye to the kitchen window, watching with interest as a pastry chef kneads dough. "She would pay you to trade Thalyssra to her. Hell, she would pay _me_ to trade Varok."

Vereesa smiles demurely. "I don't think that's allowed."

"As if you'd trade her anyway," he leans back, crossing a black leather boot over his knee. "What are we even supposed to do at these meetings? Just sit around and smoke?"

"We had dinner the first time," she offers. "It was very nice. We've haven't officially planned another yet, but have corresponded a bit since the wedding."

Thalyssra's most recent note covered a litany of topics from the weather in Suramar, to the progress of her and her ward, Theryn, and how proud she was that he had learned not to crush the flowers in the garden. She mentioned how nice it would be Vereesa and the boys to visit, and Vereesa found herself reading that line over and over again before she fell asleep. She resists the instinctive urge now to read it again, though she has dozens of times before and can recite it by memory, and the creases of the paper grow soft from her constant folding and unfolding of the letter. Thalyssra's sprawling, swooping script greets her like an old friend on each perusal, as if she can wring more meaning from her words by simply staring at them longer, laying against her pillows in bed.

She dreamed of her two nights ago in a way she has not dreamed in decades. Vereesa slid the thin straps of Thalyssra's bright pink dress from her glowing shoulders, following her elegant markings like trails on a map, a new discovery of a perfect place. "I should have kissed you," Vereesa told her in her dream, because she was too afraid to say it to her face, and this Thalyssra didn't waste another moment, tenderly pressing their lips together, her tongue exploring her mouth with growing fervor, a whimper in the back of her throat. Vereesa longed for more, her hands roaming the warm skin of her sides, her back, her breasts, until Thalyssra knelt before her, hungry and adoring, and she kissed Vereesa until she shuddered and moaned, and pressed harder into her open mouth, flooded with pleasure.

The heavy thrum of her heartbeat woke Vereesa that night, still flat on her back with the letter in her hands, panting softly, eyes peeled wide. She never had a vivid imagination, but cursed her own excitement in the quiet of her bedroom for cutting short the ending of her dream. She crashes back to reality with a blush, and hopes the steam from her tea can hide the redness of her cheeks. She slides the letter toward Genn.

"I'm sure you did." He raises an eyebrow, chomping thoughtfully at the last of his bacon. He adds, "I really don't need to see that."

Vereesa tilts her head, confused. "It's just from Thalyssra. I thought you might like to read it. It's mostly about her plans for the Reparations Council."

"Of course," he chuffs an unamused laugh, and politely dabs at his mouth with a napkin.

"It is!" she insists, carefully unfolding the letter.

"Vereesa, I can smell it from here."

She blinks up at him in disbelief. " _Smell_ it?"

"Playing coy about this will get you nowhere with me. You certainly noticed." After a beat his wrinkled face slackens, blue eyes peering hard. She feels incredibly stupid under his scrutiny, and frowns when he asks, "You really don't know? You danced at the wedding nonstop. You followed each other everywhere. I assumed it was," he waves a large hand, "public knowledge."

Vereesa fidgets in her chair, her silver hair falling loose from the high ponytail she wore after her shower. Blue eyes dart around the lace tablecloth, and her fingers toy with the edge of Thalyssra's letter where it rests beside her plate. She says, "I don't understand what you mean."

"It's— that letter is _doused_ with perfume. That is not what I would refer to as, ah, platonic."

Vereesa barks a laugh, shrill and clipped with disbelief. Thalyssra could do better than a not-quite-recovered widow with two young boys and the weight of the Silver Covenant on her shoulders. She shoves the letter back into her gray coat, embarrassed for having reached out for its comfort in the first place. Her loneliness overrides her sensibilities more often than not lately, and she chews at her lips.

"She is very kind, and knows that I've struggled lately." She slouches and turns away him. "That's all."

Genn waves down their server and wordlessly accepts the bill, responding with a generous tip. He leans back in his chair, openly appraising her as he gathers his thoughts. Her pulse thunders, and her ears flush red as they lower flat against her hair.

"Listen," he begins gently, "far be it from me to dictate anything about your life, particularly when it comes to forging meaningful emotional bonds. But I have learned the same lessons about loss that you have, and it is one I would never wish on another soul. Nothing matters more than treasuring the limited opportunities we have to connect with people. It is clear to me that Thalyssra cares very much about your well-being in the same way you care about hers. You have in your life a good woman who is worth more than her weight in salt, and you're carrying her perfumed letter in your pocket, which you seem to play with every time your mind wanders. I think you two would be very good for one another, in whatever form that takes."

She withdraws her hand from the letter at once, caught again in her nervous habit. She heaves unsteadily as her throat constricts, desperate not to cry in broad daylight. The image of Rhonin burns behind her eyelids, clever and ever-joyful and strong, and she feels like a traitor to his memory for even entertaining these half-formed thoughts about someone else, for making them so obvious that Genn noticed her preoccupation at once. She's not certain she will ever connect with another person again, not like before, and nothing will be left of her if she tries. No honor to Rhonin's memory; no home for Thalyssra's kindness. She will fail them both.

_Thalyssra deserves better_ , she thinks, collapsing beneath the weight of her own apprehension. 

"I don't— know what I want? I don't know what she wants— what she prefers?" She hates the upward inflection of her tone, as if every sentence is a question— and really it is because she has not an _ounce_ of certainty in anything she's saying— and she is a terrified rabbit who can't find her den through the heavy smoke of a brush fire. "I don't know how she feels about women— at all? In that way."

This time it's Genn's turn to laugh so loudly and unexpectedly she jumps. He smiles at her, deep and full and unabashed, "Her whole reception table was full of lesbians and old men. Of _course_ she prefers women."

Vereesa stares at her empty hands, still hunched with embarrassment as her mind whirls. She remembers Oculeth joking about his two left feet, and the way her own Ranger, Yribria, hung onto every word of the spell-fencer, Arluelle. She remembers Valtrois' hands on Stellagosa's thigh, and how suddenly Vereesa didn't mind the flirtatious Arcanist so much when her devotion was clearly intended for her lover and her lover alone.

"Oh," she says.

"Yes," Genn clears his throat. "You need to ask Lorna or Jaina or Taelia, or— or really anyone other than me. Maybe Valeera? To be frank, you have a laundry list of women who could offer their insights." He folds his napkin into a tidy square and leaves it on the table. "Just don't ask Tess. She's worse than I am." 

The idea of continuing this conversation with anyone makes Vereesa's heart flutter with anxiety, so she deflects as wryly as she can manage, "All of this advice and you still won't invite Saurfang to dinner."

Genn rolls his eyes, and she sighs with relief. "Gods, fine. You have a candid conversation with someone other than me, and I will invite Varok to the orphanage visit so we don't have to stare at each other from across a table for two hours."

"All right," she murmurs, though the thought aches in her chest.

"Hmm. You got the better end of the bargain." Genn nods to an untouched slice of bacon on her plate. "Are you going to eat that?"

She pushes the plate toward him with a smile, grateful that he isn't pressing the subject.

It isn't until later that day, after she has attended all the needs of her station and family, that she climbs the stairs to her home and relaxes behind the privacy of her front door. She withdraws Thalyssra's letter and holds it to her lips, and breathes deeply of the scent of jasmine, thyme, and vanilla, of the perfume that fogged her mind on her porch steps when they stood close enough to kiss. She can taste the domesticity and comfort and sweetness on her tongue, and she doesn't know how she missed it before.

* * *

"Alleria Windrunner?"

"Easily," Velonara replies as she re-strings her massive longbow, and for once she is not exaggerating. "Even with Thas'dorah she's not as good as me or her sisters."

Vorel slumps against the banyan tree, scratching between her shoulder blades as her toes dig into the grassy sand dunes. The sun sets orange on their scouting patrol along the Stranglethorn Vale shoreline. After two weeks of nothing but mosquitos and saltwater, they are both horrifically bug-bitten and bored. She says, "You'd not win in a footrace though. Nor a fight."

Velonara rolls her red eyes, tearing her gaze away from the Alliance ship in the distance. "That was not the question. You asked if there were any archers who could outshoot me, and I said, 'Not with a long bow,' to which you replied," her voice pitches up an octave, "Well what about a short bow?' Then you began arbitrarily naming archers, and here we are." 

"I don't sound like that."

"You do." Velonara folds her arms and turns back to the ship. It strikes her as strange that a trade carrack designed for inter-continental ocean voyages should linger so close to the shoreline. The Booty Bay docks are far to the south, well below Janiero's Point, the closest town to their current mark. 

"You couldn't out-shoot Halduron Brightwing," Vorel pouts. "Or the Dark Lady."

"Please. Halduron's shit with a long bow. Sylvanas is a tactical genius, and a better archer than her big sister, but she needs to leave the dirty work to the rest of us, lest she miss another kill shot on a very important, very seditious princess."

Vorel's petite body hunches lower into the cold roots. She's little even for a Dark Ranger, taller only than Clea, and her smallness is exaggerated even more by her partner's tall, muscular frame. Velonara has always been bigger, stronger, and faster than her peers: a natural born athlete, destined for greatness as a Ranger as early as she could remember. She was famous among the quel'dorei for her physical aptitude and competitive nature, the first picked for every team, the one who would lead them to victory no matter the challenge, all sweat and blood and shouting; she feared nothing and no one in those days. She knew only how to win, and how to do it in style.

The wind blows back her hood, biting at her face, and she tenses and grits her teeth. Velonara loathes the cold she can barely feel, a splinter beneath her skin, reminding her of the things she should have feared, but didn't. The frost of the north a permanent graveyard for her friends, the howling wind of the frigid tundra as it ripped screams from their throats. She hates the wind. She hates the cold. Even here, in the closest thing to a tropical paradise she's visited in ages, she hates it as much as losing. She turns back to the slow churn of the ocean, suppressing the jagged edges of her memory. Fear is pointless now.

Vorel fixes her gaze to her own bare feet, burrowing them deeper into the sand. "That was pretty bad. Kalira told me they think Sylvanas still feels weird about it. They don't talk about the Menethils in front of her."

"Of course not," Velonara scoffs. "It was fucking abysmal. Vereesa would have made that shot. I think _Shandris_ could have made it, and she doesn't even know how to ride a bat. I certainly wouldn't have missed."

"So you're saying Vereesa and Shandris are better shots than you."

Annoyance bristles at the back of her mind, but Velonara maintains a look of wry amusement. She would never give Vorel the satisfaction of knowing she caught her in an admission of wrongness or inferiority, even an unintentional one. They'd been partners for long enough to know she'd never let her live it down, and she'd go blurting it out to the wooden rafters of Trueshot Lodge the moment they returned home.

"No." She reluctantly shrugs, "But I think they'd have made a cleaner shot than Sylvanas did."

Vorel hums, tilting her boots to watch the stream of sand pour out from them. She wasn't made for beachfront scouting, they both knew. But it had only been a fortnight and she wasn't ready to complain yet. She could typically stick it out for a least a month before the whining began in earnest. She says, "They say Vereesa Windrunner never misses."

Velonara scoffs, "And they say Jaina Proudmoore fucked a dragon, but now she's fucking a banshee. Rumors hold no weight."

"Do you think they are?" Vorel meets her eyes with intense curiosity. "Sylvanas and Proudmoore, I mean?"

Velonara wheels on her with a playful grin, pale blonde hair whipping across her back. She hasn't shaved the sides of it in weeks and it grows distractingly fuzzy. Annoyingly, her hair and nails continued to grow after being raised.

"Do mine eyes deceive me? Is Vorel Mithwelen suddenly interested in sex?"

"Not in the slightest," Vorel cringes. "But imagine the drama. I mean, Kalira said the wedding was nice. She said they danced a lot and kissed once. It was for the ceremony, but she said it was very cute. And then she wouldn't shut up about some Draenei woman, and I didn't need _any_ of those details."

"Typical Kalira," Velonara grunts, watching the ship in the distance come to a stop as if beached before one of the small islands. More of a sand dune than anything, especially compared to the rest of the coast. "But they're married now. I don't know why they wouldn't be having sex."

"I mean, it's a political marriage, and not everyone is a lusty libertine like you."

Velonara raises a thick eyebrow. "Have you seen Jaina Proudmoore? Sylvanas would be stupid not to try, and she isn't stupid."

"First, you're asking the wrong person. Second, maybe they're just not compatible." Vorel's lips twist unhappily. "I don't think Sylvanas likes being touched. Not since we... came back."

Velonara sniffs, shifting her weight. She doesn't want to talk about this anymore. The world before Icecrown Citadel is dead, and looking back will only slow her down.

A flicker in her periphery catches her attention, and she brusquely signals at it. Vorel's eyes snap toward the shapes on the sand dunes: a half-dozen crouching shadows in a small wooden boat, paddling toward the larger Alliance carrack, still moored in place as if it expects the convoy. They row out into the fading light and she glimpses the flash of red on their faces: bandanas tied around their mouths and noses.

_Why in Belore's name is the Defias Brotherhood sneaking onto an Alliance trading vessel?_

"Suspicious," says Velonara lightly. If her heart still beat it would be leaping with excitement.

"Those aren't naga," Vorel flatly replies. "They're not our mission."

"It's the Defias Brotherhood, and they're boarding an Alliance ship," replies Velonara, a smile blooming on her face as she watches Vorel slip into her boots. "We're allies now. We have to investigate."

Vorel sighs melodramatically. "You just want to pick a fight."

"It's our _duty_ to investigate."

"No, it's not! Shandris sent us to scout for naga!" Vorel glares up at her for a long beat before rising to her feet and brushing the sand from her cloak. She shoulders her quiver, unhappily conceding, as she always does, "So what? Are we just supposed to swim over?"

"We can't get frostbite and don't need air," Velonara shrugs. "And I don't see a boat we can borrow."

"Ugh," Vorel groans.

"I only see six of them, and one looks wimpy like you. Come on." Velonara strides toward the water, bracing herself for the chill she can no longer feel.

"You can only see one side of the ship! There could be twenty! Why are they letting them on anyway?"

"You don't have to come, but I'm going." Velonara strides toward the shoreline, wading into the ice cold water without looking back again. She hears the echo of an _ugh_ from Vorel, then the quiet splash of water as her best friend follows. Velonara's head sinks beneath the waves, still smiling.

The South Sea surrounds her, peaceful and dark beneath its choppy surface. She rights her course immediately, targeting a straight line to the Alliance carrack while plotting how to adjust for the weight of a wet bowstring and arrows. She knows how to change her grip, how to aim a touch higher at long range, and continues kicking her powerful legs to propel herself forward through the deepening water. If worst came to worst she could manage with her short swords too, though they aren't her preference. The Defias Brotherhood is a smattering of poor bandits and farmers from the Eastern Kingdoms, unified only in their hatred of the crown, disorganized and under-funded, and she can't think of a single reason to feel a modicum of concern about fighting them. She smiles again as her eyes and long ears resurface, antsy for the conflict, for something interesting to report to the Lodge. It would be a rout, she knew. Another victory after a stretch of wretched boredom.

The wooden ladder slaps against the side of the rocking ship, the smaller boat now empty, bobbing beside it. Vorel emerges beside her, eyes fixed on the shores they left behind, watching her back, as always. She whispers, "Why did the ship stop for them?"

Velonara doesn't wait to scout. One arm reaches out for a ladder rung as the other pulls up her hood. "Who knows? Maybe they thought they were stranded. Let's go."

They climb the ladder stealthily, careful not to let the wood and rope give away their position. Velonara giddily peeks above the railing, her fingertips itching for her arrows like they itched for the coquettish human waitress in Booty Bay last week. She feels the electric current of her excitement intensify at the scene on the deck, tense but non-violent. The six Defias Brotherhood bandits, five big men and one short woman, strut around the ship like they own it, bullying the crew with their presence alone. They are scarred and greasy, tattooed ne'er-do-wells who take what they want by force. Velonara practically salivates: she can't wait to report this find, this _conquest_.

"Velonara," Vorel whispers so softly she almost misses it. The smaller Ranger tugs at her foot. When she glances down at her, Vorel's blonde eyebrows furrow together in fear. She points through a porthole, pantomiming poorly with one hand, her fingers spread wide. Her voice barely carries, "Gunpowder. Explosives. They're carrying a _bomb_." 

Velonara hisses between her teeth, then her stomach drops out from inside her as two furious hands burst from overhead, hauling her up and over the railing and onto the wooden deck with a sickening _thump_. One of the large Defias men stands over her, his boot poised over her head to smash in her face, and the ruthless anger of her failure empowers her.

_You don't deserve to beat me,_ she thinks.

Across deck, another man growls, "What the fuck—"

She rolls in a blur, drawing not her blades but an arrow from her quiver, and jabs it into the man's standing leg. He shrieks in pain, toppling to the side, and she rises in a flash to continue her assault. She whips her arrow around in a whirlwind, blinding a second man in one eye, just noticing the waterfall of blood that seeps into his bandana before shoving her arrow up through the chin of another. The deck is a chaotic mess of bodies and movement: the Alliance crew members, largely human, stumble away from the frenzy, as the remaining two Defias brutes close in on Velonara. Only the dark-haired woman in the red bandana stays in place: sneering, livid, and calculating as she reaches for something in the pouch on her hip.

A dark shape moves swiftly past Velonara; Vorel joins her on the ship, quick as lighting with her swords, beheading one of the bandits before bouncing to the second, staying just out of reach of his vicious spear.

"Enough!" shouts the Defias woman, her voice sharp. Her dark eyes track Velonara, who wields only an arrow when both of Vorel's swords are drawn. Velonara grins back. At least her enemy can recognizes the larger threat.

"Let the crew go," Velonara shouts louder, "and I will let you live."

She glances around the deck with her lopsided grin, red eyes flickering from face to face, seeking their smiles of relief and gratitude. They may be Alliance, but they could certainly recognize a hero saving them from bandits, undead or otherwise. But they snigger and scowl, dark gazes turned upon her, and her unbeating heart sinks low in her chest. At her side, Vorel's eyes go wide.

"I'm a prudent businesswoman, you ghoul," smirks the woman in the bandana. "Why would I fire my own crew?" Her blue eyes wander impassively to Vorel before returning to Velonara. She stares at her remorselessly as she orders, "Kill the little one."

The ship erupts with movement and a gunshot rings out across the water. "No guns!" shrieks the black-haired Defias woman.

The bullet hits Vorel in the back, above her kidney, a cruel killing shot on a living creature, and she gasps at the impact as Velonara bursts forward in terror, reaching for Vorel's arms as she staggers into her. Her mind cannot process quickly enough: the crew surrounds them, the Alliance crew who somehow work for the Defias witch, their enemy who plagues them on the mainland, as they aim their crossbows and spears. Vorel bleeds into her hands, her clothes sopping wet and freezing as she tries to right herself, clinging to Velonara's broad shoulders.

Her mind fogs. _Not again, not again_ , she tells herself, as if that will make it true. The wind whips her hood away.

The biting cold of the Halls of Reflection stung her face, the permafrost of Icecrown Citadel crunching beneath her boots as she and her sisters sought revenge for the monstrosities of the Lich King. Velonara rushed in, her hood falling to the nape of her neck, high on her vengeance and glory. She cut them down without hesitation, the Lich King's minions, his abominations, other warped, shadowy creations just like her.

She didn't hear Loralen's warning cry over the howling wind. She should have known her friend would follow: Loralen never left her Rangers behind. She didn't know the Lich King himself came for her, for Loralen, that Frostmourne would taste of her flesh twice over. That he would cut her down like reaping wheat that didn't belong in his crop.

And he was right, after all: Loralen shouldn't have been there. She followed Velonara.

_Not again, not again_.

She clutches Vorel tighter, frenzied and desperate. Velonara lifts her off her feet and bull-rushes the Defias leader, wincing as she takes a parting shot with something sharp against her arm, a grazing wound she ignores. Crossbows twang and a bolt lodges in her calf, but Velonara snarls and pushes forward to the railing. She will throw them both overboard before risking Vorel in a prolonged fight. The smaller woman is barely conscious; her head lolls back unsteadily.

_She was right—_

Suddenly, the ship spins beneath Velonara, and she blinks back the curtains that close in on the edges of her vision. She's been struck by a bolt before and it felt nothing like this, dizzying and nauseating. The Defias woman holds up a gauntleted hand, calling a stop to the assault now that their prey is pinned. A golden dagger gleams with blood at her other side, dripping patterns onto the deck.

"Now look what you've done," she says, holding up her blade. "You didn't have to go and get yourself poisoned."

Velonara shivers in a cold wind she cannot feel. The scratch on her arm burns terribly, unnaturally, and she feels her powerful muscles betraying her as she tries to keep Vorel upright.

She cannot bear the gasping sorrow on Sylvanas' coal-marked face. She cannot suppress the echo of Anya's mindless scream for her wife, for Loralen, who should never have been there at all. She can not face them, not in the Undercity or Orgrimmar, not beside them on the battlefield. No when she is riddled with the weight of her guilt and defeat. Not when she survived.

The darkness closes in and she reaches into her pocket, grasping for her Hearthstone. She activates it with a thought, the stone warm in her bloody palm, as if the comfort of Trueshot Lodge could transcend the massive distance between her and her safe bedroom.

"I'm sorry," she tells Vorel, her voice shaking.

Vorel gasps a shuddering breath, as if to beg her to stop, but before her friend can respond, Velonara drops the Hearthstone down her cuirass, and shoves her overboard. Her cloak envelopes her as she falls, blinking out of sight in a flash of arcane white just before she hits the water.

"What a stupid, noble ghoul you are," sneers the short-haired woman.

Velonara turns to face her— she didn't die like a coward the first time and won't do it this time either— but the poison makes her sluggish, and her knees buckle to the wet deck. The bolt in her leg screams in fury, but she hardens her face and stares up at the woman, the ghost of a smile on her blue lips. Velonara wouldn't let her win, even in the end, _especially_ in the end.

The woman saunters forward with her golden dagger glinting in the low dusk light, pulling down her red bandana so Velonara can clearly see her gloating. She places the tip of the blade beneath Velonara's chin, just resting it against the soft skin of her neck. Her hand is steady, Velonara notices. She can admire that in an opponent. It may be the poison, a trick of her dying imagination, but Velonara sees begrudging respect as the woman standing over her raises an eyebrow at her fearlessness.

Her voice drops low, and she addresses Velonara alone, tilting up her chin with the blade. "I am Vanessa VanCleef, and you are my prisoner, Horde interloper. Say something clever and I might keep you alive."

Velonara sucks in a breath she needs only to speak, labored and cotton-mouthed. "I may be stupid," she mumbles, "but I beat you, Vanessa VanCleef."

And just before her eyes roll backwards, she sees a mask of indignant outrage making ugly the pretty face above her. Velonara smiles again before the poison consumes her, and she falls unconscious to the deck at Vanessa VanCleef's feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that are indicative of major issues with my psyche, both quantity-related: (1) This single chapter is 8k words. (2) The number of names that start with a V is already a major issue WHAT AM I DOING?
> 
> Also, thank you all so much for your sweet comments! I love them, and I love you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for Ink and Honor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858957) by [DinosaurUnicorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/pseuds/DinosaurUnicorns)
  * [Calia Pin-Up Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26484535) by [DinosaurUnicorns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurUnicorns/pseuds/DinosaurUnicorns)




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